Tag Archives: flash fiction

December 13, 2014

Attack of the Cubblies

And now for something completely different.

Attack of the Cubblies

“Your Majesty, after several failed attempts, we finally managed to capture one of the invading Cubblies. It’s imprisoned in one of the outbuildings.

“Well, can you interrogate it?” the king asked. “Find out what they want, man!”

“It’s just too cute, your Majesty,” the captain said, his face reddening. “The first man who tried to interrogate it untied it and was going to bring it home as a present for his children.”

“Well, find someone who isn’t so damned sentimental then.”

“We did, I’m afraid. That first man we chose was Major Hickens, who is the most bitter, misanthropic man we’ve got. The others don’t stand a chance.”

“You’d better kill it then. We can’t take any chances.”

“How are we going to do that, your Majesty? None of the men will put a hand on it.”

“Well, dammit man! Thank of a way. One of you throw a bag over it, hand to another and get him to drop it in the river. Use your creativity.”

There was a thud on the roof. “What’s that?”

“They’re catapulting themselves over the walls, your Majesty.”

The window smashed and a fluffy, round Cubbly bounced towards the throne. Its wide, liquid eyes sparkled and it stretched out stubby arms towards the king as it tottered towards him. “I wuv you!”

“Aww, that’s adorable,” the king said. “Let’s surrender.”

11 Comments | tags: Alastair's Photo Fiction, attack, castle, cubbly, cute, fantasy, fiction, flash fiction, king, quirky | posted in Light

December 3, 2014

Hope, Through Fire and Ice – Friday Fictioneers

By David Stewart

I almost missed Friday Fictioneers last week. I was away for Thanksgiving, so I couldn’t post a story until last night. If you’re interested in reading it, it’s here. Here in Fayette, Iowa it’s a bright, frosty day with a windchill of -12 (Celsius). Perfect for an icy story.

Hope, Through Fire and Ice

“Kill me. Please!”

The healer looked at him gravely. “When I was a little girl, I contracted the burning sickness too. An alchemist injected ice into my veins to save my life. One drop was enough but his hand shook and he put in three. From then on, I could never get warm. I begged for death but it didn’t come.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“To tell you there is hope. Good can come from even the worst situations.” With that, she breathed her cooling breath on him and for the first time in months, he felt relief.

30 Comments | tags: alchemy, fiction, fire, flash fiction, Friday Fictioneers, healer, ice, sickness | posted in Friday Fictioneers

December 2, 2014

Out There – Friday Fictioneers

By David Stewart

Happy very belated Thanksgiving to everyone! I was traveling for most of last week, visiting relatives in LOLIA (the Land Of Limited Internet Access). However, I did have a lot of driving to do: around 24 hours in a car with no radio or CD player. I made up one great story for this picture, but then needed more than 100 words to tell it properly. So I made up another one, but the same thing happened. So I made up a third, which is below. I’ll write the other ones down soon and post them as well.

This story is so late for the Fictioneers that the next week’s picture is due out in a few hours. But I wanted to do it, so as not to miss any.

Out There

“I just lose myself in the library!” my brother exclaimed once.

“You mean in the stories?” I asked.

“No, beyond them. In the worlds beyond paper and ink and words. Out there.”

I hugged him and thought: quirky.

Until the paranoia set in. He stopped going to the library unarmed and then stopped altogether. He changed his route to school to avoid it. Finally, he broke in and washed the shelves in gasoline. You could see the blaze for miles. The town was about to crucify him.

Until they found the partially-burned thing in the ashes of the horror section.

12 Comments | tags: brother, creepy, fiction, flash fiction, Friday Fictioneers, library, monster, other worlds | posted in Friday Fictioneers

November 23, 2014

The Re-Genesis Hour – Sunday Photo Fiction

By David Stewart

The Re-Genesis Hour

There was still half an hour before dawn when Gina, the serving maid, slipped open the door. The boy pulled himself down the steps, scuttling sideways on his misshapen stumps and keeping a hand on the railing for support. Once outside, he pulled himself through the dewy, cold-shock grass. The world was fresh and alive in its daily re-genesis.

A rabbit ducked out of a thicket to his left and he gave chase for the sheer fun of it. The rabbit won, escaping back to its hole just before the boy reached it. He laughed and stood there for a moment, palms flat on the ground, cold and wet.

He continued on, farther and farther until he reached a road he had never seen before, going down to a high iron gate. A car was coming down from the house, its powerful headlights sweeping over him as he ducked back into the bushes. Not fast enough. The car stopped and a man and woman got out.

“What in Heaven’s name is that? It’s hideous.”

“George, please. I—”

“What is it!”

“It’s your son, George.”

“I have a son?”

13 Comments | tags: Alastair's Photo Fiction, dawn, father, fiction, flash fiction, handicapped, house, monster, son | posted in Dusk

November 19, 2014

Doughnut Man – Friday Fictioneers

By David Stewart

As an update, my first Green-Walled Time Machine post is now up. Come take a look at the weird world of advertisements in teacher magazines in 1913.

Doughnut Man

We passed the Michelin garage and right on cue, Brad started to whine.

“I want a doughnut, Dad. I want a doughnut . . .”

I snapped at him. “Those are tires, not doughnuts.” No good, of course. I was too exhausted to argue. We went to Tim Horton’s and I watched him stick his finger through the doughnut hole, rolling it around and making car noises. From tires to doughnuts and back to tires.

“Dad . . . Can I get a toy car? I want a toy car. Please? Pleeeease?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“If I get you one, you’ll just want a doughnut again.”

71 Comments | tags: doughnuts, fiction, flash fiction, Friday Fictioneers, Michelin Man, son, tires | posted in Friday Fictioneers

November 16, 2014

Chillin’ in Alaska

By David Stewart

This was inspired by the photo prompt and also because we just got a fresh blanket of snow last night. Hopefully I’m a bit more prepared than the girl below.

Chillin’ in Alaska

Ramsey cursed. Who knew that Alaska in the winter would be so cold? She trudged through the snow, icicles forming on her Ray-Ban sunglasses and looked for a Four Seasons. Even a Marriott would work.

There was nothing but trees.

It was all Google’s fault. She had woken up two days before just hating the world and everyone in it. She needed to get away so she had searched for the place with the lowest population density in the US. It had said that Alaska had 1.3 people per square mile, but that was BS because she had walked at least a mile and hadn’t seen anyone.

She dreaded seeing the 0.3 people.

Her feet were frozen and she was ravenous. “I’ve never been this miserable in my life,” she said out loud. She had to tweet about it. She pulled out her phone.

No bars.

What was the point of being miserable if nobody knew about it? She had to go back, if she could just find her tracks. She set off, going back, and started recording a video to post later.

“Hey friends! Ramsey here. Just chillin’ in Alaska. Wish you were all here!”

It was dark and getting colder. There was a growl in the woods somewhere behind her.

“That had better not be the 0.3 people!” she yelled.

6 Comments | tags: Alaska, Alastair's Photo Fiction, cold, dark humor, fiction, flash fiction, icicles, snow, winter | posted in Light

November 13, 2014

Powdered Sugar – Friday Fictioneers

By David Stewart

I was a little late getting this story in this week since I was at a conference yesterday with my students, who participated in a panel discussion about their experiences learning English.

On an unrelated note, I recently received two boxes of magazines that my great-great aunt had collected over her lifetime. There are some amazing things in there, from bizarre advertisements to an account of the Titanic disaster published the week after it happened in 1912. And much more. I’m starting a weekly segment known as the Green-Walled Time Machine where I’ll share things from the magazines. A new one will be up every Thursday from next week.

And now, on with the story…

Powdered Sugar

The expression on the people’s faces looked like acceptance, just as anthrax looks like powdered sugar.

The fat man on the balcony saw nothing but powdered sugar as he beamed down at the crowd.

“Good morning, everyone! I’m Mr. Krantz, your new owner. I just bought you and this whole street from Mr. Grouse, who’s retiring from the chattel business. I’ll leave your shops alone, don’t worry, although we’ll probably sell off some children here and there. Just business, of course. Nothing personal.”

He chuckled. These people wouldn’t be a problem. They looked weak and insubstantial. Just like powdered sugar.

27 Comments | tags: anthrax, fiction, flash fiction, Friday Fictioneers, owner, powdered sugar, slavery | posted in Friday Fictioneers

November 5, 2014

The Eye of the Beholder – Friday Fictioneers

By David Stewart

The Eye of the Beholder

“Will it hurt?”

“Yes.”

He looked down at her bloated, misshapen body, lying naked on the operating table. In his mind, he planned the surgery and his new, glorious creation came into view.

Cut away disgusting fat.

Replace sallow skin with sparkling chrome.

Graft incorruptible titanium onto weak, brittle bone.

Shave hideous, stringy hair.

Swap out dull, corpulent eyes for powerful, far-seeing ones.

He saw her rise out the blasphemy of flesh, with the purr of servomotors and the sensual hiss of intake valves.

She swallowed, then nodded. “But you’ll make me beautiful?”

“More beautiful than you could ever imagine.”

38 Comments | tags: android, beauty, creepy, fiction, flash fiction, Friday Fictioneers, surgery, woman | posted in Friday Fictioneers

November 2, 2014

Typical First Date

By David Stewart

Typical First Date

The moon sparkled off the waterfall like the flash of a thousand smiles. It made me nervous, like a crowd was watching me. I pushed the box into the river and watched it bob away. Everything was inside: the bloody knife, the drop sheets, and the towel I used to clean up. Everything but my blood-red embarrassment.

Talk about a disastrous first date.

Her name was Danielle and she was diamond tiara to my baseball cap. I took her to an abandoned farm to show her the stars, driving her Mercedes since she was afraid of getting her dress dirty in my geriatric Honda.

I hadn’t counted on the mutant cows. Who would, right? Slippery buggers they are, twenty feet long with a mouth like an anaconda. The milk’s not bad though, I hear.

We were walking by the barn when a mutant cow—feral, I assume—leaped out and sucked Danielle down like a dandelion. She didn’t even have time to scream.

I got a pitchfork and killed the thing pretty quick, but then it took almost twenty minutes to cut her out, hacking here and there and spraying gore like a low-budget slasher. When I was finally finished, she stood there, covered in gunk and blood and stinking like a garbage man with a soap allergy.

She drove off alone, leaving me to clean up. Damn, I hate first dates; something always goes wrong.

Maybe I’ll call her tomorrow.