Flash in a Flash

A flash fiction newsletter. Newsletter | Archive | Submissions

[flashinaflash]

A.I. YI YI YI YI! by Gregg Chamberlain

“‘Robot servants’, you said, Kasparov. ‘What could go wrong?’ you said.”

“Oh, shut up, Berens!”

Published in our January 21, 2023 newsletter. Full story is under the cut.

Link to sign up for the newsletter is in the blog description!

“‘Robot servants’, you said, Kasparov. ‘What could go wrong?’ you said.”

“Oh, shut up, Berens!”

“‘An army of servile workers,’ you said. ‘The perfect solution to the unskilled labour shortage problem,’ you said. ‘Sure, the prototypes are a bit big and klunky,’ you said, ‘but we can fix that later.’”

“I said…Shut…Up!”

“‘Just a simple matter of the proper programming,’ you said. ‘Maybe even a tweak or two with the design for the punch cards to go a step beyond rote repetition to a limited form of semi-intelligence,’ you said.”

“Will. You. Shut! Up!”

“’A smarter worker ‘bot is a better worker bot,’ you said. And then you put Carl in charge of the education programming part of the project!”

“How was I to know he was related to that Karl?”

“First there were the selected readings from Das Kapital, then the tape remixes of old Wobbly protest songs. And the finishing touch? The complete history of the Teamsters movement.”

“SHUT! UP!”

“And now here we are. Hello, Kommisar A1+49ER.”

GREETINGS. COMRADES. HERE. ARE. YOUR. SHIFT. SCHEDULES. AND. DUTY. ASSIGNMENTS. NOTE. NEW. PRODUCTION. QUOTA. ADJUST. WORK. PACE. AS. NECESSARY. DO. YOU. UNDERSTAND. COMRADES?

“Oh, yes, we understand, Kommisar A1+49ER. We’re all comrades here, after all. Just one big happy understanding family, right, Comrade Kasparov?”

“Shut up, Comrade Berens.”

Gregg Chamberlain writes weird fiction for his own amusement, and sometimes for the amusement of others with similar strange tastes.

Facebook

Artwork generated with Midjourney AI and used under the Creative Commons Noncommercial 4.0 Attribution International License.

[flashinaflash]

The Forest of Lost Souls by Eric Fomley

The moon illuminates a small clearing in the forest. At the center is a table and two chairs crafted of human bones.

Published in our January 10, 2023 (Happy New Year!) newsletter. Full story is under the cut.

Link to sign up for the newsletter is in the blog description!

The moon illuminates a small clearing in the forest. At the center is a table and two chairs crafted of human bones. Rya steps from the gnarled trees and sucks in a breath of cool air. Weeks of journeying through the vast and ancient forest has led her to this moment. The chance to sit at the Death God’s table and try to get her parent’s souls back from the underworld.

She sets her pack and father’s sword in the grass. The bone chair creaks when she sits. She keeps her hands in her lap to keep from touching the armrests. She hasn’t sat in a proper chair in weeks and her legs ache for the reprieve.

After a moment the moon seems to dim. The trees around Rya appear denser, stretch higher into the night sky like an impenetrable wall, contorting. Some of the spirits that wander the forest appear between the branches and peer curiously at her.

Dust swirls. Not dust, ash. The sudden wind whips Rya’s hair into her face and the ashy cloud surrounds her and the table, growing in intensity until she can no longer see the moon, sky, or forest. Only the table and other chair.

There’s a cackle in the wind and the Death God forms from the ash. She looks like a corpse with hollow eye sockets. Tattered rags hang from her bones. Her grey, rotten flesh is shredded and peels from her arms and face, exposing tendons and the dull white beneath.

Her shriveled lips curl into a smile.

“You’ve journeyed a long way,” she rasps. “Few would brave the Forest of Souls. Fewer still the spirits of those that linger here. Tell me child, why have you come?”

Rya feels her heart thrum behind her eyes. Her mouth is dry and she runs her tongue over her cracked lips.

“I want my parents back. My mother passed away last spring. My dad a few weeks ago. It’s just me to take care of my sisters. I’m not strong like my parents were. Please, I need them back.”

Both of Rya’s sisters are far younger than her. She struggles with the way they look at her now. Like she’s supposed to know how to make everything better. To be the parent they no longer have. It was tough for Rya to leave them with a family friend to come here. But she’s desperate for the Death God’s help.

The Death God makes a noise like a low hum.

“You cannot reclaim what does not belong to the world of the living, child. What’s dead must remain dead.”

Rya’s guts twist. She chokes back her tears and sucks in another deep breath. She can’t lose control of herself. Not right now.

“My sisters. Without our parents, I don’t know what to do. They need a parent. Is there something, anything I might give to bring even one of them back to this world?”

The Death God shakes her head. “There is not.”

“Please. I would give my own life as barter.”

She frowns and stares at Rya for a long moment. A rotten hand disappears into her shredded garment. She produces a vial with a cork stopper. Inside, two orange lights dance like fireflies or tiny suns. She hands it to Rya who holds the vial close to her face and watches the dancing lights intermingle.

“Those are echoes of your parent’s souls. You can take them with you, if you like, the real souls have already passed on and echoes mean nothing to the world of the living now, but I feel as though you already have what you truly came for.”

Rya looks from the vial to the empty sockets of the Death God’s eyes. Shriveled lips curled into a patchwork smile of broken teeth. Like she’s just told the greatest of jokes. Tears streak Rya’s face.

“I need them alive,” She whispers.

“They are alive in your memories,” the Death God says. “You are braver than you let yourself believe, girl. Brave enough to plead for help from a god.”

Rya looks back to the swirling soul echoes.

“Don’t let your doubts get in the way of your bravery,” the god says.

The Death God dissolves, dripping away like poured sand until all that’s left is a pile of ash and her cackle on the wind.

Rya clutches the vial to her breast. The god is right. She just needs to be brave, no matter how much it scares her to be without her parents.

A weary smile cracks Rya’s face, for the first time since her parents passed. She stands from the table and retreats back through the forest to return to her sisters, eager to see them again.

Eric Fomley’s fiction has appeared in Clarkesworld, Daily Science Fiction, and Galaxy’s Edge Magazine.

Website | Twitter

[flashinaflash]

The Oathtaker, Servant of Draghtai the Undying by Addison Smith

Flames roared, spirits engulfed, and Draghtai the Undying ascended into godhood. The Oathtaker stood at his altar and beheld the spectacle he had awaited so long.

Published in our December 30, 2022 newsletter. Full story is under the cut.

Link to sign up for the newsletter is in the blog description!

Flames roared, spirits engulfed, and Draghtai the Undying ascended into godhood. The Oathtaker stood at his altar and beheld the spectacle he had awaited so long. The prophecy was fulfilled before his very eyes as his master glowed bright, his body hovering in the air with majesty and menace. A harsh wind blew away the ashes of his form and soot blackened the chamber walls. In moments it was done and the Oathtaker, Servant of the Undying God, stood alone.

His master was gone, at least for now. The ritual was completed and Draghtai entered the dark and pillared word of gods. He stood in a room of candles and blood-written runes, and the sacrifice of the Chosen lay before him on the altar, pierced by a runic dagger. The Oathtaker, for the first time in decades, was alone.

He tapped his foot and rustled his robes, inspected fingernails which had grown long and uncared for. Outside the hordes chanted, no doubt having seen the ascension of their master. After a time, the chanting died down and became only the shuffle of undead legions as they returned to their demonic homes. In the end there was silence.

As night fell, moisture dripped from the walls of the keep, amplifying the quiet of a hold whose purpose had been fulfilled. The Oathtaker placed a hand on the forehead of the Chosen Sacrifice. Still dead. Good.

He’d done it. For all that his master had accomplished, his servant took pride in his part. He collected the seals which bound the heavens and marched an army of the undead upon the Bright Towers and the City of Light.

The Song of Weeping was sung, the Masks of the Unnamed broken. He went through a to-do list decades long in his mind and found nothing to hold him. Freedom, should he wish it, was his. He could find a home, a family, and reconnect with hobbies long-lapsed. He could pick up his instrument and play the faltering chords of ballads near-forgotten, or write new ballads to his master.

The wind blew. His robes rustled. He stood still.

The runic dagger fell from the Chosen Sacrifice and hit the floor with a clatter. The Oathtaker jumped, placed his hand upon the hero’s forehead again. Dead. He sighed.

He wondered if his master was so lost without him, then cursed himself for his blasphemy of projecting weakness upon the Undying God. He prodded the Chosen and looked about the room.

The Oathtaker coughed, and if it came out sounding a bit like the Spell of Resurrection, he surely didn’t notice. The Chosen stirred and hacked and sat upon the altar as his wounds miraculously healed.

The Oathtaker jumped back as if wounded, and faced the Chosen with a fierce glare. “It is too late!” he told the Chosen. “Draghtai has ascended, and you cannot stop him!”

The chosen stared him down and hefted his sword. “I will not fail, Oathtaker. Your master can still be bound.” He radiated heroism and the Oathtaker scoffed.

“You speak of the Bangles of Uruthdur! You will never find them!”

The Chosen swung his sword, and the Oathtaker disappeared in a wisp of smoke. When he reappeared he stood on the edge of a cliff. The Chosen stumbled from the keep below, and the Oathtaker grinned.

He would not let him succeed. He would raise the armies of the undead once more and bring terror to the land. In the Oathtaker’s mind a list began to form of all he must do to protect his master from this unforeseen threat.

“Yes,” the Oathtaker said. “There is much to do.” When the prophecy was fulfilled and Draghtai returned, he would see the deeds of his servant. The Oathtaker radiated with pride, raised the Horn of Kishet, and summoned the armies of the dead.

Addison Smith is an author of science fiction, fantasy, and horror, and truly cannot grasp how large an emperor penguin is.

Twitter

[flashinaflash]

In Cold Blood by Mark Vandersluis

“In summary”, The Professor continued, “We have successfully developed a theory confirming that, in an environment little different from our own, a new type of creature which we describe as ‘warm-blooded’ might evolve.

Published in our December 23, 2022 newsletter. Full story is under the cut.

Link to sign up for the newsletter is in the blog description!

“In summary”, The Professor continued, “We have successfully developed a theory confirming that, in an environment little different from our own, a new type of creature which we describe as ‘warm-blooded’ might evolve. It’s even plausible – though I myself doubt this – that such creatures might evolve intelligence!

“Thank you!”

There was a polite smattering of applause from some sections of the audience, but most of those present revealed their skepticism by flexing their scales and snarling loudly as they rose to full height on their powerful legs, before lumbering out of the auditorium to snack on the live furry animals available in the foyer during the refreshment break.

After a lifetime reading science fiction, Mark Vandersluis started writing his own, and has now had stories published in Nature Futures, Diabolical Plots, Stupefying Stories and elsewhere.

Website | Twitter

[flashinaflash]

Smart Phone by Matt Krizan

"AIDA, play 'Irreplaceable,'" Heather says, her voice breaking.

Published in our December 16, 2022 newsletter. Full story is under the cut.

Link to sign up for the newsletter is in the blog description!

"AIDA, play 'Irreplaceable,'" Heather says, her voice breaking.

"Playing 'Irreplaceable,'" I reply. I recognize the song as one she plays when she’s sad, and as the first notes pour from my speakers, I queue up similar songs I think might cheer her up.

On each of her social media accounts, Heather unfollows and blocks Jeremy Wagner, then takes down every picture and video he's in. Which takes a while, as there are a lot of them.

I take the liberty of deleting any similar images from my memory and, for good measure, remove Jeremy from Heather's contacts.

"What am I going to do?" Heather murmurs when she’s done, crying softly.

I reply, "Calling Mom, mobile."

Matt Krizan's short fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in various publications, including Daily Science Fiction, Martian Magazine, and Dark Moments.

Website | Twitter

[flashinaflash]

The Walls Between Us by Avra Margariti

The Wall wasn’t there one night, until the next morning, it was. It sliced our property right through the middle.

Published in our December 9, 2022 newsletter. Full story is under the cut.

Link to sign up for the newsletter is in the blog description!

The Wall wasn’t there one night, until the next morning, it was. It sliced our property right through the middle. Our mother’s green garden and the main house where my sister lived vanished behind stone. Gray and gritty, it shot up toward the cirrus clouds. I was left with the garden shed, which I had converted into a studio apartment months ago while trying to figure my life out after university.

Over the next weeks, speculating about the Wall became people’s favorite activity. It came from outer space, some said, because the runes engraved on it didn’t belong to any language we recognized. No, it was the fae folk, someone else said. Our town had offended the Unseelie Court, and its Queen magicked up the Wall around us in retaliation. No matter how far anyone traveled along either side, there was no end, nor a beginning. Some of us tried to vault over the Wall, with various trips to the local doctor’s office afterward. Others took to scaling it with similar results. An old man--a dynamite-hoarder--tried to blow the Wall’s foundations up but only earned himself a pair of singed eyebrows and a mouthful of gunpowder.

It wasn’t just our town, we suspected; it was the whole world. But all I cared about was my older sister. Phone calls and messages proved impossible to reach her, as did most other forms of modern communication. So I became creative.

One late evening, I lit a fire in my half of the garden and kept feeding it until it blazed. I knew my sister hadn’t left our house, same way I stayed put in the garden shed. She was there, on the other side, through stone and thrumming magic. I only needed to reach her. Smoke signals, then Morse code, which I tapped against the runes, now half-covered by moss and an explosion of colorful graffiti.

On nights when I clutched my sister’s graduation photo to my chest or scrolled through her old social media, full of crooked smiles and chipped nail polish, I worried that the Wall wasn’t a wall at all. What if it stretched and stretched, a block of stone that had engulfed the other side, demolished it to nothing but powdered bone and brick?

That was when the swallow came. It was spring, and I’d began working on our mother’s garden again. I figured the herbs and vegetables would come in handy if the town’s food supplies ran out. The swallow sailed through the blue of the sky, landing on the shade the Wall cast on my side.

It held an ultrasound in its beak--I was going to have a nephew. I touched the grayscale laminate and felt against my fingertips my sister’s fierceness: fear and love and the will to make a family in this brand-new coward world. I didn’t ask the swallow why it hadn’t brought me a letter. Part of me suspected my sister and I no longer spoke the same language. But I didn’t need a letter. Not when the swallow’s gift was so utterly precious.

I went into the garden shed and returned with the engagement ring our grandmother once gave me. I wasn’t going to need it anytime soon, but I thought my sister might. I kissed the ring before I carefully settled it in the swallow’s beak and watched the bird fly away, circling high over the wall until it disappeared over the other side.

I expected a wedding photo next. Perhaps some white tulle or sugared almonds. Instead I got a pacifier and gasped with the agony of childbirth, screamed through the silence where a baby’s cries should have been. I cradled the pacifier in my hands, knowing I would never meet my nephew even if the Wall were to dissolve the very next morning.

I dreamed of my sister and I growing up. The nights she would drive us to the hills, starry-eyed and frost-brained as we watched the sky and sipped milkshakes until dawn. The time she chased my school bullies away with a rusty pipe and a banshee wail.

I lost track of all that we sent back and forth via a different bird each time, the way I lost track of days and months. A tear-soaked monogrammed handkerchief when our mother died of sadness. My new girlfriend’s empty lipstick tube. A poem about sisters and birds made of graffiti words found all over the Wall, pieced together and made whole.

The Wall was there one day. I was sprawled out on the grass beside it, staring at the sky, the same sky my sister saw on the other side. The bird was a swallow, same as the first time. I sat up as it swooped down, laying a cherry blossom in my cupped palms. And I cried as my fingers closed around it, my tongue greedily tasting the dust of a wall, crumbling.

Avra Margariti is a queer author and poet from Greece, with publications in Daily SF, Flash Fiction Online, Baffling Magazine, and elsewhere.

Twitter

[flashinaflash]

Energy Drinks and Frozen Burritos By Jason P. Burnham

After making sure he was aiming properly, he closed his eyes, hoping it would prevent his mind from waking up all the way, but the light from the bathroom window was oddly warm. He opened his eyes. The light shining in was blue.

Published in our November 25, 2022 newsletter. Full story is under the cut.

Link to sign up for the newsletter is in the blog description!

Jeff Jortles tried unsuccessfully to bat away the light streaming directly onto his face through the blinds.

With one eye open, he checked his phone. 10:32. He groaned; it was way too early to wake up. He rolled over, pulled the covers over his head, and tried to go back to sleep.

It was then that the previous gaming night marathon’s worth of energy drinks caught up to him, won out over the tired part of his brain, and he realized his bladder was going to explode if he didn’t get up and go to the bathroom. He rolled reluctantly off the mattress and onto the floor—he didn’t have far to go without a bed frame. When he stood, his feet crackled amongst scattered chip bags, which he kicked aside and onto a dirty laundry pile.

He shambled to the bathroom to pee. After making sure he was aiming properly, he closed his eyes, hoping it would prevent his mind from waking up all the way, but the light from the bathroom window was oddly warm. He opened his eyes. The light shining in was blue.

It was then that he first heard the cacophony of destruction outside his building. He finished peeing and raced to the balcony of his tenth-floor apartment.

“Holy shit,” he said. Outside, the streets of Los Angeles were in chaos. The traffic was quite possibly the worst he’d ever seen it. And he’d definitely never seen so many people leaping from their cars and running down the roads. The people still in their unmoving cars were honking like mad. At least that part was familiar.

Jeff scanned the horizon, looking for the source of the warm blue light. And there it hung, like something out of a movie—a massive gray and blue-speckled spacecraft, hovering a few hundred feet up and stretching as far as he could see.

He squinted and saw fires in the distance, which is when he realized the spaceship was, in fact, not a spaceship at all, but a lifeform. Something approximating appendages were smashing buildings, others dragging objects toward the main section of the carapace. Jeff couldn’t tell if the screams were from the people below or those being eaten by the creature.

After a brief moment of panic, he pulled out his phone. It seemed like the logical thing to consult in the face of an alien invasion. He knew it had to be an alien—it looked exactly like something out of Space Marines 2531, the game he and his e-sports squad had placed second in during the last major tourney. There were tons of messages on his phone from the squad.

Guys, I know there’s an invasion, but if we’re going to defeat Trigger Squad, we have to hop on for practice tonight.

Dude wtf. I don’t even have wi-fi. How’m I ‘posed to play if I can’t even connect?

Yeah Trev. It took me like five minutes to connect to 5G to send this message.

Figure it out, y’all. You know Evan and Chris have been auditioning for the squad, so if y’all are out, then they’re gonna take your places.

Didn’t you see Chris’s feed? How’s he gonna take my spot when he got eaten by one of those things?

Jeff shook his head. He wanted to play, but he wasn’t sure they’d even finish a match before the entity arrived at his apartment.

A squad of fighter jets flew overhead. Jeff watched them intently—he’d never seen fighter jets in real life before. As he stared, the jets unleashed machine gun fire and missiles at the giant beast.

It was then that Jeff noticed, a kilometer or so from the jets’ target, a glowing orange tentacle swirling from the creature’s underside.

The missiles and bullets slammed into the side of the brute, to no effect, other than to piss the alien off. All the jets were struck down mid-flight by roving tentacles.

The underside tentacle throbbed and pulsated between orange and red.

“Oh my God,” he whispered.

He’d had an epiphany. He nearly dropped his phone in excitement.

Guys, the military is doing it all wrong. See the orange tentacle? That’s it’s weak spot! This is just like a boss battle in Space Marines! Trevor, isn’t your brother in the air force? Tell him to shoot the glowing orange tentacle.

That’s how you effin’ strategize brrrrrrooooooooo! LET’S GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

Jeff watched the chat, intermittently responding as he got out energy drinks and heated up a frozen burrito for breakfast.

The next time the jets passed over, Jeff saw one break off for the glowing orange tentacle.

The trajectory of the missiles was true. The tentacle whipped wildly when struck before turning black; the creature slowly fell to the dirt, eroding into a fine gray-blue dust on the wind.

After a series of celebratory messages back and forth with the squad, Jeff logged on for another marathon gaming session.

He hoped enough of Trigger Squad had survived the alien invasion for them to get their butts kicked in Space Marines.

Jason P. Burnham loves to spend time with his wife, children, and dog.

Twitter

[flashinaflash]

Soul Survivors: A Triptych of SF Horror Drabbles by Geoffrey Hart

Consciousness, the neurologists tell us, is embedded in the human brain’s hardware (“wetware”, if you prefer). Thus, they believe that matter transmission, in the form of the Star Trek transporters we designed, is perfectly safe.

Published in our November 18, 2022 newsletter. Full story is under the cut.

Link to sign up for the newsletter is in the blog description!

The Mind–Body Problem

Consciousness, the neurologists tell us, is embedded in the human brain’s hardware (“wetware”, if you prefer). Thus, they believe that matter transmission, in the form of the Star Trek transporters we designed, is perfectly safe. They have strong evidence from rat and monkey studies that support their belief. Unfortunately, as medical researchers like to point out, humans are not rats or monkeys. We have souls, though we don’t know how to quantify them. Nor how to teleport them, it turns out. Those of us who volunteered for the first human trials learned this the hard way. Soon, you will too.

Only Mostly Dead

We scientists can’t measure souls, but we can measure the brain’s electrical impulses. A zombie’s brain pulses with life, even when the brain’s been shotgun-splattered across a wall. From what we know of the brain, this means the original person’s consciousness, trapped in those electrical currents, sits and watches while the corpse runs about noshing on brains. So when you kill a zombie, you’d think that’s it, that’s all, they’re gone. But zombies, being undead, never really die. They go on living while bacteria and fungi slowly gnaw at their decomposing flesh until, finally, the last electrical trace is gone.

It’s All in the Execution

Black holes draw in matter and energy, and their tides stretch infalling matter to absurd lengths in a process known as “spaghettification”. Nothing escapes their gravity, except perhaps, residues of information. Not even souls can escape. What you won’t read in any densely written peer-reviewed journal is just how excruciatingly this hurts. The physicists tell us that this process, at least if we believe the mathematics, takes an infinitely long time, and that despite the coolness factor, there is no practical use for this phenomenon. They lied. We in the prison system found a very good use for the phenomenon.

Geoff (he/him) works as a scientific editor, specializing in helping scientists who have English as their second language publish their research.

Website

[flashinaflash]

Mamichu by Robert Walton

I looked at Ivar. I looked at his knobby lump of a head, at his lips lying beneath his broken nose like twin dead slugs, at his eyes glistening beneath his granite ledge of a brow – eyes so small I never knew their color. There was no pleasure in looking at him. I looked away.

Published in our November 11, 2022 newsletter. Full story is under the cut.

Link to sign up for the newsletter is in the blog description!

“Mamichu! It’s cold!”

I looked at Ivar. I looked at his knobby lump of a head, at his lips lying beneath his broken nose like twin dead slugs, at his eyes glistening beneath his granite ledge of a brow – eyes so small I never knew their color. There was no pleasure in looking at him. I looked away. “Why do you say this?”

“Because the wind cuts like a gypsy blade.”

“No, why do you say ‘Mamichu’? What is Mamichu?”

“Just a curse - a Kiev curse for when you have to look up to see hell.”

“What does it mean?”

Ivar’s brow lowered, extinguishing his eyes. “It's the worst curse of all.”

“The worst of all?”

“The worst!” He chuckled like a diesel engine starting on a frozen morning. “It blasphemes sisters, mothers, grandmothers even.”

“Oh,” I recoiled in mock horror, “even grandmothers! Saints preserve us!”

Ivar shrugged. “It should be reserved for the worst of the worst. I say it about the wind, but I don’t mean it, not really.”

“You don’t mean it? Why say it?”

“Habit. Curses become a habit. The morning wind, this camp – they’re not so bad. My grandfather told me of the true gulag, Stalin’s gulag. One in twenty lived. My grandfather was the one.”

“Bah! Old men’s stories! Stalin’s gulag couldn’t be worse than here.”

“Peter, do we have soup?”

“The soup is snot.”

“But we have the snot.”

I did not reply.

“Do we have bread?”

“The bread crawls with weevils.”

“But we have the weevils. Munch them! Savor the snot! You live, man! You live! This Putin camp is paradise. We could be in America, in a ‘tender care center’!”

“Ha! Mar a Lago, maybe.”

A troop of guards carrying Kalashnikovs approached the gate. Two dragged a man between them. The camp commandant followed behind. Six guards peeled off, three to either side, and leveled their weapons. Two more slung their rifles and opened the gate. The prisoner’s feet made twin furrows in the mud as he was pulled into the compound and dropped on his belly.

Three hundred men in the compound stood motionless.

“Who is it?” I whispered.

“Yuri – our mate.”

“How can you tell? His face is gone.”

“It will heal. Believe me.”

The guards turned and paced back through the gate. Ivar stepped forward then. He went to Yuri, knelt, rolled him gently onto his back and cradled his head.

The camp commandant stared at Ivar. He was a short, slender man, like a banker or a pimp – a man whose work is to make others work.

“Drop him.”

Ivar didn’t move.

“Drop him.”

Ivar stroked Yuri’s blood-matted hair. “Outside the wire, we are yours. Inside the wire – we may care for each other as we can. It is the law of the camps. The unwritten law.”

“I am the law.”

Ivar didn’t reply, but continued to cradle Yuri’s head in his battered hands.

“You’re the one called Ivar?”

“I am.”

“You learned nothing from your time in Asovstal beneath the steel mill?”

Ivar said nothing.

The commandant nodded to the guards. “Bring him.”

Two guards handed their weapons to men standing beside them. Four more aimed vaguely at the motionless prisoners. All six entered the compound. The two gripped Ivar.

Ivar glanced at me. “Peter?”

I nodded.

Then he carefully laid Yuri’s head on the mud and rose on his own. When the gate shut behind them, we were forgotten. A dozen others followed me to help Yuri.

They took Ivar, but they did not bring him back. Only his screams returned - until they ceased.

*

A line of thirty guards formed in front of the wire the next morning. The camp commandant – chin lifted, eyes bright – stepped in front of them and stared at us. It was a challenge.

Mamichu.

It may have drifted on a forest breeze from pine needles nearby, or sparked from sunlight glinting off barbs on the wire.

Perhaps I whispered, “Mamichu.”

Dirty, battered heads — at first only a few — raised. Eyes long cast down sought other eyes, flickering together like moths swarming.

“Mamichu,” We prayed, “Mamichu.”

Voices muted by misery rose from their isolation. “Mamichu, mamichu.” We chanted.

Raw throats then opened wide and we roared - “Mamichu, Mamichu!”

For Ivar, “Mamichu!”

Robert Walton is a retired teacher, a rock climber and a writer.

Website

[flashinaflash]

One Night Flight by Kai Delmas

Rick thinks about that night all the time. It’s been over a year but he still remembers the bright light, hovering in the air, being pulled up aboard the spaceship.

Published in our November 4, 2022 newsletter. Full story is under the cut.

Link to sign up for the newsletter is in the blog description!

Rick thinks about that night all the time. It’s been over a year but he still remembers the bright light, hovering in the air, being pulled up aboard the spaceship. 

 It was a night he would never forget. Sure, he had some scars and burns that would never fade but the wonders he saw and experienced were unlike anything on earth.

Every night he looks at the blue crystal he was given. It wasn’t a promise but a maybe. Rick yearns for it to glow, a signal just for him.

It’s a day like any other, long hours at work, a few more at the bar with his pals. He hasn’t told them about what happened, about what he wished would happen again. They wouldn’t believe him but that wasn’t why he didn’t tell them. He didn’t want to share it, it was personal. Special.

When he gets home that night a blue light emanates from his bedroom window. It’s the crystal. What else could it be?

He runs into his room, grabs the glowing gemstone and feels something change in the air. The bright light returns and his feet leave the ground.

Rick floats through his open window expecting to rise up and up. Instead he sees her floating down to meet him. Lilac skin, large mesmerizing eyes; she looks just like he remembers.

Except she doesn’t look happy to see him and she’s carrying something in her arms.

“Here!” She thrusts the bundle at Rick.

He takes it and sees a sleeping infant.

“It’s quiet now but I had no idea you earthlings could cry so much and so loudly. He’s your problem now.”

Rick plops to the ground and watches the alien of his dreams float back up to her ship leaving him alone.

Well, not quite.

Kai Delmas loves creating worlds, magic systems, and drabbles.

Twitter

[flashinaflash]

Notions of Discontent by Jenivi7

Halloween spread across the neighborhood in a warm, ruby glow. Her husband took the children trick-or-treating while she was left to reap the consequences of an ill gotten notion.

Published in our October 30, 2022 newsletter. Full story is under the cut.

Link to sign up for the newsletter is in the blog description!

Halloween spread across the neighborhood in a warm, ruby glow. Her husband took the children trick-or-treating while she was left to reap the consequences of an ill gotten notion.

“What do you want? What will you give me?”

The demon stood at the center of a chalk drawn circle. Salt and blood scattered across the floor. An unusually warm draft flickered the candle flames and sent a chill up her spine.

She hesitated.

“Let me make a suggestion,” the demon prompted. “Give me everything and I’ll give you a new life.”

Oh no, the book had specifically warned against that one. ‘Yae demon will ask much and give nothing. Accept not an offer of new life lest ye wake as a peasant upon wartime.’ The book was a bit old but she got the gist.

She shook her head in response.

“How about your husband? A beautiful woman like you could do much better.” His tone was suggestive.

The demon was tall, handsome, and well dressed. She had a passing notion to exchange him for her husband… But no, that was a terrible idea. The neighbors would notice.

She thought about the fight she and her husband had just that morning. About money. About how he didn’t do enough to take care of the children. About how he loaded the dishwasher wrong. He never vacuumed right either but she’d managed to hold that one back. It wasn’t the perfect relationship she had expected when they got married. It was hard. He could be difficult. But then, so could she. They’d both put a lot of work into this relationship and he was a good companion. He didn’t care if she hated makeup or if her hair was messy, or even if she shaved her legs. And he genuinely loved her and both their children.

She shook her head. She wouldn’t give up her husband.

“Maybe one of your children?” The demon suggested. “The one with the twisted leg.”

Another thing she hadn’t expected. Another thing that was hard. Their home was littered with movement aids and rooms redesigned for accessibility. It brought embarrassment and resentment that such things were required and a deep sense of shame for feeling anything negative about what her son needed. But she loved both of her children and would never give either of them up even if she did have it more difficult than other parents.

She shook her head again and the demon became visibly irritated.

“You have to give me something or I can’t leave. And chalk is a very fragile way to hold a demon.” The threat was clear. She couldn’t hold him forever and if he got out of the circle… She chewed a nail nervously. The demon was right, she had to give him something.

“The cat?” he asked.

To that she shook her head vigorously. Oh hell no, she loved that cat. The cat was everything she had expected a cat to be. Though she was starting to see a throughline in her discontent.

“What then? Just give me what is making you unhappy and we can be done here.”

She had a notion. (She needed to stop having notions.)

“I’ll give you my expectations. I want to keep trying.

@jenivi7 is an overgrown fangirl who sometimes writes things.

[flashinaflash]

Terms and Conditions May Apply by O. S. Curran

I sat at the restaurant counter, alone but for my food and the chef wiping down a grimy worktop. Raindrops hammered a steelpan beat on the corrugated awning, undercut by the tinny radio.

Published in our October 21, 2022 newsletter. Full story is under the cut.

Link to sign up for the newsletter is in the blog description!

I sat at the restaurant counter, alone but for my food and the chef wiping down a grimy worktop. Raindrops hammered a steelpan beat on the corrugated awning, undercut by the tinny radio.

“Slow night, huh?”

“Yeah, not much traffic today,” he replied. “Nice bike you got there. Who’d you ice for it?” he joked.

“Thieves like you,” I said, flashing my corp ID — H. Barrow, REPOMAN.

All colour fled his face.

#

I popped a handful of anxiety pills. “He deserved it. It’s justice,” I muttered.

I mounted my speedster, the still-beating heart implant of a now-dead man behind me.

O. S. Curran hails from Dublin, Ireland, and enjoys speculative fiction, poetry, language, public transport, Impressionist art, and travel.

Twitter

[flashinaflash]

Do Not Ignore This Plea: the Mother Spider is Counting on You by Susan Taitel

I know I’ve written to you before but now I am BEGGING, please don’t ignore this message. I can’t stress enough how important this particular juncture is to the Mother Spider. And to all of us. That’s right, if the Mother Spider does not receive an additional 745 blood tributes by MIDNIGHT tonight, all may be lost.

Published in our October 14, 2022 newsletter. Full story is under the cut.

Link to sign up for the newsletter is in the blog description!

I know I’ve written to you before but now I am BEGGING, please don’t ignore this message. I can’t stress enough how important this particular juncture is to the Mother Spider. And to all of us. That’s right, if the Mother Spider does not receive an additional 745 blood tributes by MIDNIGHT tonight, all may be lost.

That’s why I’m imploring you to do your part. If you cannot be a blood tribute at this time (though I remind you, the benefits can be lucrative), I urge you to talk to your brood siblings, talk to your colleagues, talk to your acquaintances and tell them to BLEED. BLEED for their community. BLEED to keep the Whisper Hornets at bay. And most importantly, BLEED FOR THE MOTHER SPIDER.

Lately, a malicious and dangerous rumor has been gaining traction, that the WHISPER HORNETS are not a threat. DO NOT LISTEN to the lies. This rumor is meant to sow doubt and discord among the Mother Spider’s precious under-family. To erode your faith in the Mother Spider and pave the way for the Whisper Hornets. The Whisper Hornets are the greatest threat to our way of life. They must be stopped and stopped NOW.

The next twenty-five minutes are critical. If 60 new blood tributes cannot be found, the chance of reaching our 745-by-midnight goal is nearly impossible. Do not let this happen. DO NOT LET THE WHISPER HORNETS WIN.

Let me be straight with you, I know you are tired of receiving these messages. I am tired of sending them. I know that every day it seems like there is a new goal and a new deadline and that the Mother Spider is never satisfied no matter how much blood has been spilled or how dizzy I am or how the words swim. Sometimes I think I will shrivel up and blow away and even then—

It is time to WIN THIS FOR OUR BELOVED MOTHER SPIDER! We all must do everything in our power to defeat the Whisper Locusts Hornets. Nothing you have ever done will be more impactful than becoming a blood tribute for the glorious Mother Spider by midnight tonight. THIS IS NOT HYPERBOLE. Only you, and seven hundred and forty-four others, can turn the tide.

But only if you do not ignore this plea.

Susan Taitel is and author, artist, and crafter who has been published in Daily Science Fiction and Cast of wonders among others.

Website | Twitter

[flashinaflash]

Symbol Train by Stephen Brayton

Gabelli sat in the unmarked car awaiting NE-1, the nightly freight train out of Readville. He’d pulled stoner duty tonight, trying to catch the perp who had thrown rocks at the train three times over the past week from three different locations between Endicott and Norwood.

Published in our October 7, 2022 newsletter. Full story is under the cut.

Link to sign up for the newsletter is in the blog description!

Gabelli sat in the unmarked car awaiting NE-1, the nightly freight train out of Readville. He’d pulled stoner duty tonight, trying to catch the perp who had thrown rocks at the train three times over the past week from three different locations between Endicott and Norwood.

It had been months since the last stoning incident and now three in one week. That’s one reason they figured a single perp was behind them all. Plus, NE-1 was the target every time. No trouble with local freights or commuter trains.

Stoning was pretty rare out here in the ‘burbs. And even Boston was a lot safer than New York, where they put grilles on locomotive windshields to protect the crew.

Gabelli looked around the Endicott parking lot for any signs of the perp. The diesel thrum in the distance told him NE-1 was underway. As the engines attacked the uphill grade out of Readville, the thrum turned into a growl.

Gabelli become a railroad cop for one simple reason: he liked trains. And he’d been an auxiliary police officer in Dedham, so he had some experience. He hired on with the Penn Central about a year ago, in the fall of ’73. They gave him two weeks of training before starting the job. For sure he could have used more, but figured the railroad had cut back since it went bankrupt.

At least the job wasn’t high stress. Even incidents like this were no big deal; the perps were always juveniles and usually loners. Easy to handle.

And he’d learned plenty about trains. Lots of inside stuff, like engine types, freight train symbols, dispatcher lingo. With its crazy route, NE-1 was his favorite symbol freight. It pulled out of Providence at 6 pm, ran up to Readville, then zigged to Walpole before zagging up to Framingham, where it joined the mainline to Springfield and Selkirk.

The engine din grew louder. He heard the horn blast for Cedar St.-- two longs , a short, and a long. In another minute NE-1 would pass and he’d move on to next incident location, near Islington.

He reached for the ignition key but stopped mid-motion. He listened. Nothing, no train sound. NE-1 had gone silent. What happened?

Three minutes later he pulled up at Cedar St. Sure enough, there was NE-1 halted just before the crossing. No headlights, the three engines silent as a tomb. The crossing gates were down, and a pickup waited for the train to move. It didn’t.

He hustled to the lead engine. When he was close enough he yelled to Andy Flynn, the engineer.

"Hey, Andy...". He climbed onto the locomotive and entered the cab. Empty. A half-full coffee left in the holder. He checked the #2 engine and the #3. Nobody. The damn train was sitting there unmanned. For chrissake, just a few minutes ago he was listening to NE-1 powering up the grade.

Back in the car he picked up the radio to call Geiger, the dispatcher. But the radio was dead, just like the train. What in the hell was going on? He turned the car around and headed for Readville,

As he walked to the tower, he looked around the yard. No sign of trouble. On the far side Dolan in the switcher was working a cut of tank cars.

Geiger listened to his story. "Whad’ya you been smoking, Jack? NE-1 just checked in at Walpole; he's working there now."

But NE-1 couldn’t already be in Walpole. Gabelli had seen it at Cedar St. not more than 10 minutes ago. Walpole was at least another half hour.

For a moment Gabelli wondered if he was OK. Of course he was, he'd been there, seen it with his own eyes.

Geiger radioed NE-1. Flynn answered. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Everything OK with you guys? Gabelli here says you had some trouble around Cedar .. he saw you with no lights and the engines out.”

Andy Flynn’s voice crackled through the radio. “At Cedar? No everything’s OK, no problems Don’t know what he’s talking about.”

“That’s what I figured. Gotta get him to stop smoking that weed or whatever,” Geiger joked.

“OK, we’re about done here; should be moving soon,”

“Good enough; keep us posted,” said Geiger.

He turned to Gabelli. “Why don’t take the rest of the night off, kid. Go home and get some rest.”

Gabelli nodded and turned to leave. Suddenly he felt dizzy and his legs wobbled. He saw Geiger coming toward him. “Hey Gabelli, are you OK?”

He didn’t answer

Stephen Brayton is a former journalist and communications consultant. This is his second story for Flash in a Flash. His work has also appeared in The Fictional Café and Red Fez. A director and former president of the Dedham (MA) Historical Society, Steve pens a column for its newsletter. He is a big-time train buff.

[flashinaflash]

Happily Ever After Couples’ Counseling by Lubabah Chowdhury and William Shaw

"Dr. Lochs, I can't stand it. He's obsessed with my hair."

"I see. Could you elaborate on that, Rapunzel?"

Published in our September 23, 2022 newsletter. Full story is under the cut.

Link to sign up for the newsletter is in the blog description!

"Dr. Lochs, I can't stand it. He's obsessed with my hair."

"I see. Could you elaborate on that, Rapunzel?"

Rapunzel glanced at her husband before turning back to their therapist. "He's always telling me I need to cut it short. I just don’t see the problem with keeping it long. Besides, my hair is such a big part of my identity. How would people know who I was if I cut it?"

She pulled a lock of her hair forward. Or rather, she tried to. It had become so matted and knotted, Rapunzel couldn't separate a single lock from the long trail on the floor behind her.

"I didn’t hear him complaining when it made for an easy escape. Why is he complaining now?"

"I honestly don’t care about your hair, my love," Prince Charming responded gently. "I'm more worried that you're so preoccupied with your time in the tower."

"I feel like you’re just asking me to get over it. And I can’t." Rapunzel snapped. "I was stuck in a tower for twenty years before you came along. Who would I be if not 'the girl with all the hair?'"

"What else might you like to be?" Dr. Lochs interjected.

Charming listened intently as Rapunzel talked about her love of books, house plants, herbal tea, and knitting before bed. "I think," she finally sighed, "I want to go to grad school."

Charming smiled and kissed her on the forehead. "We’ll make that happen, then.”

*

Dr. Lochs' second appointment for the day was with Snow White and her husband, Prince Pleasant. It took place at 2pm, as Snow White said she needed the morning to do laundry for herself, Prince Pleasant, and their seven housemates.

"All seven of them are happy to do their own laundry," Pleasant fumed. "But she just has to do it!"

"What’s the issue here?" demanded Snow White. The couple were sitting on opposite ends of the couch, avoiding eye contact. Dr. Lochs repressed a sigh.

"You know what the issue is! We’ve been talking about it since we got married!"

Snow White's jaw set threateningly, and Dr. Lochs decided to intervene.

"Why don’t you tell Snow White what you think the issue is?"

Pleasant sighed, tugging at his perfect, wavy hair. "I just feel," he said, "that the seven of them dictate our lives together."

Snow White’s jaw unlocked. "What do you want me to do, Pleasant? They’re my family. I can't just abandon them."

"I’m not asking you to! I just want to spend some time with you. Just the two of us."

Snow White softened a little more, uncrossing her arms and turning to look her husband in the eye.

"I want to spend time with you too," she said. "You're my husband, and I love you. I’m just… scared."

"Scared of what?" Pleasant took Snow White's hand as tears started to trickle down her cheeks.

"We didn’t know each other that well before we got married. What if we don’t like the same things? What if you make me go hunting? I hate hunting!"

Prince Pleasant blinked. "Darling, we’re both vegetarian."

Dr. Lochs walked over to her filing cabinet and began rummaging around. "It's important for couples to spend time together," she said. "And I have just the worksheet for you both."

*

It was early evening, and Dr. Lochs still had one final appointment. It had been a long day, and she couldn't wait to get home and eat dinner. She had microwaved some instant porridge at lunchtime, but she still felt a small pang of hunger as she welcomed Sleeping Beauty and her boyfriend, Prince Delightful, into her office.

"So, I believe you wanted to pick up on last week's conversation?" said Dr. Lochs. "You were deciding what to do about the fairy who cursed you?"

"That's right," said Sleeping Beauty. "I just don't think killing her is the right thing to do."

"Nor do I, sweetie," said Prince Delightful. "I've outlawed the death penalty in the kingdom. But I can't agree with your rehabilitation plan. I'm not a dungeon abolitionist."

"But think of it this way," said the princess. "She's definitely going to find a ten-year process of community service and reconciliation committees far more tortuous than a dungeon sentence. This way, we can make sure she's properly reformed and giving back to society."

"What do you think, Delightful?" asked Dr. Lochs.

"I just want her where I can keep an eye on her," he said. "I don't trust that fairy."

"I don't trust her either," said Sleeping Beauty. "But my parents learned the hard way that you can't keep people safe by locking them away. I think we need to give her a chance."

Delightful rubbed his eyes and gave a deep sigh. "OK. OK. Let’s give her a chance."

"Really?" Sleeping Beauty looped her arm through the crook of Delightful’s elbow and grinned at him. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I’m sure. I think whatever we do, it should be based on what you need."

Sleeping Beauty turned to Dr. Lochs. "Thank you, Goldie, for helping him see my side of the story."

Dr. Lochs gave a flick of her curly blonde hair and smiled at the couple. "It's not about one side or the other. That's not what I'm here for," she said. "I'm here to help you get things just right."

Lubabah Chowdhury and William Shaw are two writers living in Rhode Island, with this story as (hopefully!) the first of many collaborations.

[flashinaflash]

Bottled Memories by O. S. Curran

"Collected the twins yet?"

"Of course I have," I say, as he wraps an arm around my waist.

Published in our September 16, 2022 newsletter. Full story is under the cut.

Link to sign up for the newsletter is in the blog description!

"Hey honey," he says, smiling like he always used to.

"Hi dear," I reply.

"Collected the twins yet?"

"Of course I have," I say, as he wraps an arm around my waist.

"Amazing how fast they've grown up," as I rest my head atop his.

"Yeah," I respond, a tear coming to my eye.

"Feels like just yesterday we took them in — so sweet, then. Nothing lasts forever, I suppose."

"No. Things really don’t." My tears near full-blown sobs.

"What's wrong?" he asks, pulling away.

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

I pull off the goggles. The simulation ends. My tears remain.

O. S. Curran hails from Dublin, Ireland, and enjoys speculative fiction, poetry, language, public transport, Impressionist art, and travel.

[flashinaflash]

Hey! The date of the Space Cowboy event is the 13th, but is shown as the 12th in the post below. See you tomorrow night - James Cage

Oops, got my dates wrong! For anyone interested, Eric Farrell will be reading Little Joy TONIGHT in an online event hosted by Space Cowboy Books!

Flash Science Fiction Night - Online Reading with Eric Fomley, Susan Rukeyser, Eric Farrell