It’s final exam week here at my university and as I sit here and proctor a reading exam, it seemed like a good chance to write some flash fiction. This is dedicated to my sister, whose birthday it is this Friday.
copyright Sandra Crook
“Maybe I should call them.”
“Don’t call. They’ll have a great time home alone. We’re in France. Relax.”
“We should have brought them.”
“It took five years to save enough for us to come. We’d never save enough for all of us. Just go take a shower, get dressed up, and we’ll hit the town.”
She’d scarcely shut the bathroom door when he called internationally.
“Hey Dad,” his eldest said. “The plumber stopped the leak, but it’ll take a week to dry the basement out.”
“Okay. Call the insurance company. And do not tell your mother until we get back.”
I’m extremely late in posting this story, but better late than never. I actually wrote it last week, but I was in Seattle for a conference and didn’t get a chance to post it.
copyright J Hardy Carroll
“You’re a werewolf?” she asks.
“A wereman, actually.”
“So every month you turn into a . . . man?”
“A different kind of man. An accountant actually.” I blush. “Just a frenzy of budgets and data sheets.”
She looks pensive. “That’s cool. You could do contract work, do a month’s work in three days and rent an office on a per-day basis to save money.”
“Okay.” This is getting serious for a first date. “What about you? Your profile said you’re a succubus, right?”
Now she blushes. “Not exactly. I just exploit men’s useful abilities.”
I’m back again. Don’t worry, I haven’t died or given up writing. On the contrary, I’ve been hard at work on several novels I’ve been writing since last fall. They’re almost done, and I’m hoping to get back to writing for the blog more regularly.
I made my way through the inky blackness, walking ninja-like towards the door. A thick chain barred my way. Just like the queen to take such extreme measures to protect her riches. But I knew that she kept the key under her pillow, and I had stolen it.
I unlocked the chain and lowered it silently to the floor. As I drew open the door, a hallowed light burst from the chamber within, revealing the treasure I so desperately sought.
The light snapped on. “Harold, are you getting into the Thanksgiving pies?”
Well, I’m not dead, in case any of you were wondering. It wouldn’t be totally implausible, since I dropped off the face of the blogging world for about 3.5 months. Partially, I needed a break, and I have been hard at work on a few large writing projects. Also, I felt bad about posting Friday Fictioneers stories when I didn’t have time to read anyone else’s.
I don’t know if I can come back at full strength, but I will try to post more regularly, if anyone is still around to read my stories.
copyright Bjorn Rudberg
Amateur Night at the Cantina
I shuffled onto the cantina’s stage, clutching my plasma cello with sweaty hands. Hundreds of eyes stared out at me from the gloomy bar, whole constellations of varying colors, shapes and sizes.
I started with some Beethoven, but I quickly felt an undertone of discontent grow in the air. I switched to some Trebellium orchestral music. It was so soaring and grand, it could make your heart weep, but the anger only grew.
“Play the song!” someone finally shouted.
That song. I hated it, but I had no choice if I wanted to escape alive.
Sigh.
I began to play.
(The idea for this story came from a scene from Family Guy’s Blue Harvest, where they joke that in the Mos Eisley cantina, they only play one song.)
Shoppers meandered around the store in hip waders, shopping carts half submerged.
“How did you come up with this idea?” the reporter asked.
Jeff grinned. “I thought it was about time someone applied the self-pick produce model to seafood. With seafood, freshness is everything. Here, everything is alive up until you buy it. No expiration dates needed.”
An old man shuffled up in oversized boots. “Excuse me, I just need a can of tuna.”
“No cans here, I’m afraid,” Jeff said, throwing the reporter another grin. “Everything’s fresh.” He handed the man a spear gun. “Bluefins are in aisle 30.”
That’s been my nickname for six months now. Hey, I’m just a fruit seller, making a living. Maybe even a profit.
“Morning,” I say to the first alien. Twenty are lined up behind him. He slings his rifle, holds up twelve fingers, and I bag up a dozen oranges in exchange for a glowing cube which I guess is money. I’ve got 518 so far.
Later when the aliens all die, scientists discover that the Vitamin C was slowly poisoning them. Suddenly I’m a hero.
The government is really curious about those glowing cubes.
Night sleet timpanied against the café windows. Jenny sipped her last two dollars in coffee form.
“He’ll come, hon,” the barista said. “He’ll get your message.”
“He wouldn’t want me back. It was a stupid thought.”
“Just wait.”
Jenny stood. “Thanks anyway for using your phone.”
The door banged. A man in soaked clothes hurried in and spotted Jenny.
“Listen, I’m sorry I ran away, Dad. I’m so sorry I took the money—” Her words were cut off by the man’s crushing hug. Cold tears like night sleet ran down his cheek onto hers.
You have reached a quiet bamboo grove, where you will find an eclectic mix of nature, music, writing, and other creative arts. Tao-Talk is curated by a philosophical daoist who has thrown the net away.
The Green-Walled Tower 