Flash Fiction Story 053: Tachyons, Commas, and Fortune Cookies

I had spent the morning in futile battle with a couplet that would never see the light of day. I had spent the afternoon telling myself I should go as far away from my writing as I possibly could, and never come back.

I might have listened to myself, too, if only I could be sure I was right. I mean, of course, naturally, I could find out if I was right to give it all up. There were ways. They were silly, and expensive. So pricey, in fact, that I felt like a spendthrift just thinking about it.

Then again, if the process managed to finally free me from the shackle of my pen, then it might be worth it. If it somehow renewed my commitment to my work, then at least I could write it off on my taxes.

I entered the waiting room and made way for the receptionist.

“Hello, ma’am,” the receptionist said. “And how can I help you with your temporal needs today?”

“Yeah…” I said cautiously. I wanted to be able to tell on sight if this was some sort of practical joke, but came up short. “I was wondering if you see people on a walk-in basis. I want to see my future.”

“Yes, of course, ma’am. If you’ll fill these out.” She handed me a stack of paper latched to a clipboard and one of those Bic stick pens whose ink always gums up. “And have a seat over there, someone will be right with you.”

I quickly filled out the pile of liability waivers thicker than my thumb. A man then emerged and beckoned me toward him. He took my paperwork and escorted me to a back office. There, a woman sat behind a simple oak desk. A small metallic dome—like a strainer without holes—sat on the desk.

“Hello,” she said. “And what can we do for you today?”

“I’m… Uh…” Suddenly, words were starting to fail me. Story of my life, I suppose. “I’m a writer, and it… uh… hasn’t been going well, lately.”

“I see,” she said. She touched the metal dome and it glowed and hummed in response. “So you’re wanting to figure out your next big idea before you come up with it.”

“No,” I said. “Ideas were never the problem. I need to know if what I’m doing is going to be worth it, whether or not I’m wasting my time.”

She stopped. “Oh. We normally don’t get requests like that… aside from romantic questions, that is.”

“Is it a problem?”

She started poking at the dome along its hemisphere. “No, just requires a slightly different approach is all.”

“So, what do I do?” I asked.

She removed her hands from the dome. “Easy does it. We have to go over a few things. First, it’s not like you see in our commercial, not exactly, anyway. We’ll shoot a current of free-range tachyons through your body. Do you know what tachyons are?”

I shook my head.

“Well, they’re particles that are always traveling faster than the speed of light. When you deal with them, causality gets a little… scrambled. Things happen to you before you have the opportunity to observe them. Effect becomes cause. Chickens become eggs. And Schrödinger’s Cat is most certainly dead.

“Now, as causality is one of those fundamental rules of physics, you cannot under any circumstances retain any memory of your peek into the future.”

She must have seen my dubious face. “Don’t worry. The experience is still well worth the investment. You are able to write a description of what you see, so that you have at least a sense of the answer to your question. Now, if you’d put your hands on the faraday cage.”

I assumed she meant the dome and reached out to the object. It felt ice cold to the touch.

“When do we start?” I asked.

“Actually, we’re already done,” she replied.

“We are?” I pulled my hand away from the dome.

“Yes, ma’am,” she said. She opened up a drawer and took out a small sealed envelope. She placed it in front of me. “May I say, you’ve had quite a trip.”

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Your message.”

“It doesn’t seem like much…” I eyed it suspiciously.

“Oh, it can’t be of any considerable length… It would mess with causality, and that is one of our bugaboos, after all.”

I started to open it up. 

She put a hand up to stop me. “It’s not a good idea to read it so close to the device…”

“Causality?” I asked.

“Yes! Why, maybe you should come work for us!”

The man who escorted me to the back office returned and shuffled me out the back door. Back in the world, I opened the note to myself.

It read:



What an unbelievable crock! Did that woman have a stack of fortune cookie-esque notes ready to hand to customers on their way out the door?

And yet, I couldn’t help but wonder how they mimicked my handwriting so precisely… Maybe there was some kind of fantastic science at work here.

But even then, what did that message even mean? Should I keep going with my writing? Did I miss a comma? It wouldn’t have been the first time. Did “DON’T, STOP” mean to tell me I should quit while I am well, well behind?

Either way, this was easily the dumbest 300 bucks I ever spent.

Art by Eris O’Reilly

Art by Eris O’Reilly

Flash Fiction Story 052: Wise Willy Wombat’s Last 18 1/2 Minutes On Earth: The Tragedy of Watergate

When one thinks of the great, unsolvable historical mysteries, several examples come to mind. Who was the second gunman on the Grassy Knoll? What is housed in the Top Secret military facility at Groom Lake, Nevada, better known as Area 51? How did Reagan keep his hair like that, and is the product he used still commercially available?

The greatest of these mysteries is no doubt the fabled erased 18 1/2 minutes from June 20th, 1972 recordings of an Executive Office Building meeting between President Richard Nixon and White House Chief of Staff H.R. “Bob” Haldeman. Although the administration—even when confronted with other material from the tapes that eventually doomed them—insisted that the erasing was accidental, few viewed these clams as even remotely credible.

Many have speculated about what material may be included in the erased portion. More in-depth admissions from the President regarding his involvement in the Watergate coverup? Admission of some heretofore undiscovered crime conducted at the behest of the Nixon Administration? Or, perhaps some sort of embarrassing illumination of an unrevealed aspect of the 37th President’s personality?

Attempts to recover any of the audio have been fruitless, and so historians have long since made peace with the conclusion that the tapes would never be heard.

This was until a Dictaphone tape labeled “6/20/72 - EOB - IF SUBPOENAED, EAT*” was discovered in the attic of what had once been the Clearwater, Florida atelier of Bebe Rebozo, longtime Nixon friend.

While the newly discovered tapes are of relatively poor quality (the beginning is still completely obscured), this new discovery sheds an uncompromising light on a still debated about historical period, and, more importantly, why parties still unknown saw fit to erase the original tapes. 

Here now is a transcript of the recovered section:

HALDEMAN: (unintelligible)

THE PRESIDENT: Well, you’ve got to understand that there isn’t much else to do in Dallas on a Thursday at lunch.

HALDEMAN: Didn’t that happen on a Friday?

THE PRESIDENT: Hell if I know, Bob.

HALDEMAN: Just so I have my notes straight…. 400,000 to Liddy?

THE PRESIDENT: Rebozo can find the money…

HALDEMAN: And then Liddy will distribute it to the others how he sees fit.

THE PRESIDENT: Goddam right. That’s how it was all going to go down in the first place, why change the plan now? Christ, Bob, there’s no way in hell that I’m going to lose this election to any of those damned Democrats, let’s not get caught up in the penny-ante stuff.

(A loud popping sound is heard at this point in the tape. Audio experts at the University of Florida have determined it is an actual sound in the room, and not any type of damage to the tape.)

THIRD INDIVIDUAL: Well, hi there, Dicky!

THE PRESIDENT: No, it can’t be… I haven’t seen you since—

(Someone pounds on a nearby door)

HALDEMAN: Somebody help-

THE PRESIDENT: You can see him, Bob? This is—

THIRD INDIVIDUAL: The name is Wise Willy Wombat, and imaginary friendship is my game! And of course he can see me, Dicky! You always thought you were the only one who could see me, but I can—

(Another pop)

THIRD INDIVIDUAL: (hereafter referred to as “Wise Willy”) —disappear—

(Another pop)

WISE WILLY: —and reappear at will!

THE PRESIDENT: Mother tried to have me committed to a sanitarium because of you…

(Wise Willy giggles)

WISE WILLY: But that’s the good news! I’m not a figment of your imagination! I’m a being a from another world!

HALDEMAN: A Martian?

WISE WILLY: I’m from dimension 347-Sigma-Alpha, but sure, Mars, if that helps.

HALDEMAN: And, sir, he’s your imaginary friend from childhood?!

WISE WILLY: And, of how we did have some fun times, didn’t we? Remember when we used to play Cowboys and Communists?

THE PRESIDENT: I still don’t know why I had to be Karl Marx—

(Wise Willy giggles)

THE PRESIDENT: —every goddam time!

WISE WILLY: —or when we used to pick imaginary fruit from the Yorba Linda orchard?

HALDEMAN: Should I still be taking notes?

THE PRESIDENT: No, goddam it!

WISE WILLY: Remember the time we went to Jolly Old England, and you almost became the drummer of that band…


WISE WILLY: Yes! What was the fake name you used that day?

THE PRESIDENT: Wiggles McBiggles.

(Wise Willy giggles)

WISE WILLY: Oh, man! 1962 was one fun year!

HALDEMAN: ’62? Sir, you had already been Vice-President!

THE PRESIDENT: It was a dark time. I was trying to re-invent myself.

HALDEMAN: You were running for Governor of California!

THE PRESIDENT: I just wanted to be cool, is that such a crime!?

(Wise Willy giggles)

THE PRESIDENT: Willy… It’s… uh… It’s good to see you again, of course… But why are you here?

WISE WILLY: Oh, Dicky, Dicky, Dicky… You have lost your way! Vietnam—

HALDEMAN: Yeah? Try asking Kennedy about that one!

WISE WILLY: —Cambodia—

HALDEMAN: Well, hard to argue with that one…

WISE WILLY: And now these burglars sent to mess with those silly Democrats. What happened to that special little guy I used to sing to sleep?


WISE WILLY: Hey little Dicky… Don’t look so sicky… You’re my best pal in the whole wide world!


WISE WILLY: Why are you choking me, Dicky?

THE PRESIDENT: I love you, Wise Willy… But I’ve got to be a big boy, now.

WISE WILLY: Urk… I love you… Urk… Too, Dicky…

(Another popping sound)

THE PRESIDENT: Well, now that I’ve taken care of that, Bob, remind me to erase the recording of this meeting.

(Both are silent for several seconds)

HALDEMAN: Wait, you’ve been recording all of your meetings?

THE PRESIDENT: Yeah, why? Do you think that will be a problem?

HALDEMAN: Na, I don’t think so…

*Thought to be either a reference to “Executive Action Termination,” an order for Rebozo to consume the tape, or both.

Art by Eris O’Reilly

Art by Eris O’Reilly

Flash Fiction Story 051: God is Indifferent and The App Needs An Update

I’m hungry. Yes, that much is certain. I am 25.6 percent hungrier than I was when I went to bed last night.

I looked at the alarm clock on the nightstand next to me. It blinked its harsh refrain at me. 8:00 AM. 8:00 AM. 8:00 AM.

It was still dark. Ugh. Why do we still put up with Daylight Saving Time? I got out of bed and headed for the kitchen.


I’m not dumb. At least, I don’t think I’m that dumb, so I can’t quite figure out why—twice and in sudden succession—I felt compelled to walk into the brick wall that had inexplicably replaced my bedroom door. I suppose my mind wouldn’t allow itself to believe the wall was there when I smacked into it the first time.

It was hard to discount the possibility of it actually existing after the second impact.

Prone on the floor, I looked up at the red brick behemoth. All I could think about was every inch of ache throughout my body. Wondering how the brick wall had gotten there was the furthest thing from my mind. 

The pain subsided and my hunger hit 83%. I might have tried to ignore it, but the number indicating the percentage constantly floating above my head refused to let me forget.

I stumbled over to the night table and grabbed my cell phone. Surely this brick wall thing was a prank. Weirdly complex and still sort of bewildering, but somebody was playing a trick on me. My cousin did this. There was no other explanation. I can’t figure out how he got all that concrete in here without me waking up, but I’ve slept through even weirder things before, like the time my old roommate tried to set the house on fire and then died from too much woohoo.


My phone had vanished into thin air. I sighed. This happened from time to time. It was so frustrating. Over the years, I’ve had any number of things disappearing suddenly. Recliners. TVs. More trampolines than I can count. One time an entire Turkey Dinner just blinked out of existence while I and my family watched.

My hunger reached 92%. I wondered how I was going to use the bathroom if I was going to be trapped in here forever. That was a problem for later. 

It might have been the slowly creeping delirium, but the wall was starting to remind me of the background of every comedy club in the 1990s. Didja ever notice that all of a sudden brick walls appear in your house, preventing you from escaping or getting any kind of food?


I turned around and faced the window, pulling at the blinds.

The window was gone too. In its place… Well, in its place was nothing. Past the curtains, the Robin’s Egg Blue wallpaper just continued, as if I had been the crazy person this whole time for hanging drapes over smooth wall.

Why had God done this to me?

All I could feel, all I could think was the hunger.

I looked up once more and wailed to the ceiling. My weakened anger made incoherent noises out of my pleas. My hunger reached 100%, and all I could see was red. God had no response to my frantic pleas.


She closed the laptop.

This game needs an update, she thought. Walling off rooms until people die of hunger just isn’t as fun as it used to be. She wallowed, if only for a moment, in her boredom. She thought she might be hungry, but that might have meant she was really bored.

Art by Eris O’Reilly

Art by Eris O’Reilly

Flash Fiction Story 050: Chicken or Fish

The fundraising dinner for the Insistence on Democracy, Individualism, and Oligarchy Today was set to enjoy record attendance this year, ensuring that they would continue their quest for ballot access in more (read: more than just Montana) states in the 2020 election. 

Founded in 1972 by a famed Arctic Explorer Wilhelm “Bang! Bang!” Bangerton, the Party was intended to ensure that John F. Kennedy not be awarded a fourth term in the White House. By the time anyone could successfully explain to Colonel Bangerton that—owing to the twenty-second amendment—no one could be elected to the White House more than twice, and that President Kennedy had been notably dead for nearly a decade, he had already received 9.3% of the vote against Nixon and McGovern, and was therefore eligible for public matching funds in 1976*.

Having enjoyed less success in the post-Watergate era, the Party survived Bangerton and now meant to reclaim its former near 10-percent glory. A sumptuous meal had been arranged for attendees, and after charging 750 dollars per plate, such a lofty goal was finally within reach for Iggy McWhit, Bangerton’s political protégé and current Chairman of the Party.

The caterer’s head waiter approached. “Monsieur McWhit, the time has come. Will you be having the chicken or the fish?”

McWhit thought about the question long and hard. He considered all the pros and cons considering inherent flavor and texture, quality of the cut of the meat, and his own gastrointestinal history. 

“I will have lasagna.”

“I beg your pardon, monsieur?”

McWhit’s eyes narrowed. “Did you not hear what I said? I want lasagna.”

“But,” the waiter countered in a sputter. “We only have chicken or fish.”

“I refuse to accept your false dichotomy!” McWhit proclaimed, leaning into the pronunciation of the “die” in “dichotomy.” “I reject chicken! I reject fish! I require lasagna!”

“Oui, Monsieur, but unfortunately the menu for this evening only has two choices. Chicken or fish.”

By now McWhit’s shouting had attracted the attention of other attendees. Bart Bangerton—no relation—the Party’s Sargent-at-arms took up his chairman’s battle cry. “Tyranny! Tyranny!” he yelled. Others soon did likewise.

“Please!” the waiter begged. “Good people, this isn’t tyranny. It is merely an inconvenience.”

“Inconvenience is a myth!” Bangerton the Younger shouted. “Stop taking our rights!”

McWhit smiled wanly at the waiter, confident that his work here was done. All throughout the banquet hall, previously placed orders for the two available meals were revoked, until an Italian-insisting mob overthrew the powers that be.

And still there was no lasagna.

And so the Party ended forever on that evening, because every party member, and every person at all inclined to be sympathetic to their cause, starved to death out of protest. On the plus side, the employees of the caterer were allowed to take home all of the uneaten chicken or fish plates for a nominal fee.

* See Col. Bangerton’s memoir I’m Going To Stop Joe Kennedy’s Kid One Way Or Another, And None Of You Are Going To Stop Me for more on his political philosophy, and his struggles both with syphilis and a demagnetized compass. For a more sober history on the Party and its effect on politics over the last fifty years, see Has Anyone Seen Antarctica Lately? by Doris Kearns Goodwin.

Art by Eris O’Reilly

Art by Eris O’Reilly

Flash Fiction Story 049: The Open House

With acknowledgement to Terry Collins, the HWG, and the University of Nebraska course catalogue. I’d explain, but it’s almost better without context.

“It provides not only a method for the analysis of salient transmedial strategies of narrative representations, it encourages a provisional interpretation of intersectionality which can pervert habits of essentialism, categorical purity, prototypicality, analytical clarity and contextual rigor, thus enforcing the need for a synthesized and decolonial dialectic.”

“Yes,” I politely agreed with the seller’s real estate agent, most of the words clanging around uselessly between my ears. “But the Zillow page described it as a split level…” I looked around the main hallway but didn’t see the break off point.

“Cross-promotional transcendentalism bypasses all lateral modes of criticism, thus endowing all ventral spaces with an organic flow-through that transmogrifies incidental perceptions into a larger, more linear conception of space and time.”

Another question bubbled within me but died somewhere in my lungs. Instead, I nodded. “That’s good.” I looked at the kitchen fixtures. They were retro and reminded me of the kitchen at my grandma’s house growing up. That was either a plus or a minus, but I’d have to double check what was in vogue currently. I really didn’t know anything. “What’s the neighborhood like?” I asked.

“Post-colonial pre-war communities often present an ontological oneness, while also amplifying a metaphysical twoness—“

Panic set in as I tried to make eyes on an exit but came up short. In fact, the memories of how I had gotten into this house were suddenly a little fuzzy.

“So how are, the schools…?” I asked, giving in to my surroundings.

“Agricultural norms dictate rustic valuation of arithmetical notions, giving way to algebraic geometries in two, four, but not three dimensions.”

I nodded. The schools had to be good. “How recently has the roof been replaced?”

“Pastoral textiles refurbished from antidisetablishmentarianist artisans producing conflict-free rebar gunite experienced trans-temporal fortitude across all demographics.” She continued talking before I could form another question. “Financial stakeholders distending tri-quarter compounding interest lending offset incidental expenses across all lunar periods.”

Was it just me, or was she starting to make sense? I think I might have just been hungry. “I’ll take it?” I might have been asking myself more than anyone.

She smiled, and now I owe $150,000 to what I’m hoping is a bank but may just be a front for a cartel of artisanal kitty litter smugglers. Owning land is great, let me tell you.

Art by Eris O’Reilly

Art by Eris O’Reilly

Flash Fiction Story 048: To Whom It May Concern

To Whom It May Concern,

Life is too short to continue to conduct it in unremitting anger. One man can only take so much, and so that time has come for me. As Edmund Burke said, the only thing necessary for triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing, and so I must do something.

Our organization is a pillar of virtue, a beacon of hope for the rich and poor alike. We have made low people better and brought out the best in the already great. It is the closest thing I have to a relationship with God. And yet you treat it as nothing more than your personal plaything. I would curse you with shame, but it has become abundantly clear that such capacity is beyond your abilities, along with basic literacy, upright bipedal motion, and object permanence.

Your incompetence is without limit. I have seen souls with more acumen and wherewithal at the helm of the fryer at Golden Corral. You are not fit to run a bar tab, to say nothing of an organization with our storied history and wide reach. 

You will read these words and insist that they aren’t about you. That my ongoing troubles dealt with someone else. You might also think you are the sole reason this letter has been written. As with most things, you are wrong either way.

You read my words and now you are certain that some grave injustice has been done. This isn’t fair, you decide. And your heart goes out to the people who you feel have been unfairly maligned.

But you and I both know your generosity is a story you tell yourself to help you sleep at night, your humanity is a dream you lack the courage to make a reality, and your compassion is a farce. 

It all goes away the moment anything resembling the instincts of your better angels becomes the least bit convenient. You are all frauds.

You may think I write these words in anger, and that my anger will live with me for the rest of my life. You may be right, but I write this in the hope that the rest of humanity isn’t like you, that every experience in life doesn’t have to end in such abject disappointment.

I damn you, because I hope there is something better out there, and that it doesn’t include you.

Thus, I hereby resign my membership from the Cheese of the Month Club, effective immediately.

With Great Contempt,

Slorp Goolman

Art by Eris O’Reilly

Art by Eris O’Reilly

Flash Fiction Story 047: The Shopping List

To: Kevin@TOOTH.org

From: Jörg.admin@TOOTH.org

Re: Shopping List


Before you come by, would you mind grabbing a few things? Things have been hectic here, and I haven’t had a chance to get to the store.




Grapes (green, as long as they’re firm, otherwise red)

Hamburger Helper



If the store is out of plutonium, any of the actinide metals will work in a pinch, but we’ll have to add:



One Big Guy

One Little Quiet Guy

One Guy Who Is Proficient With Nunchaku or some other equivalent melee weapon (if he is also the big guy, also grab a squirrelly guy in glasses, as long as it isn’t anyone with a Political Science degree)

Two Helicopters, both with my face painted on them. (Don’t forget the coupon)

The missing pages from the Tome of Eternal Doom. (Bring a shaman with you, even if you have to kidnap them. Otherwise, it’s going to be a whole thing.)

1 lb. ground turkey


Flash Fiction Story 046: Let's Get Fit!

It was my thirty-third birthday, and I spent the afternoon in the electronics store looking for something to make me feel young again. Had I known it would be my last birthday, I might have gone to the movies instead.

The latest video game systems tempted me for a moment, but ever since they had gone three-dimensional, all they did was make me dizzy. The movies they still stocked were sparse, to say the least. I also didn’t have a 4K Blu Ray player, nor the particular desire to buy Taxi Driver for the fourth time in under twenty years. A new phone felt less like a treat and more of a self-destructive folly, especially with the near-certainty that some new, larger, earth-shattering phone would be announced the instant I relented to an upgrade.

It truly seemed like my venture would prove ultimately fruitless, until one voice rose above the other trinkets and demanded my attention.

“Hey! Fatso!”

I looked up from a display of noise-cancelling headphones. No one was there, not even the usually pushy store clerks.

Yes. You’re fat and I’m talking to you.”

I approached the source of the voice. Attached to an array of security tethers, smart watches of every size, shape, and color blinked their lights at me.

One model in the middle of all the Fitbits and Apple Watches pulsated with a red glow distinct from the others. It sported a light brown leather band, and a dark metal chassis. In severe block lettering below the display unit, the word “Aeolus” stared at me.

“What are you? Mute?”

The Aeolus Watch blinked with the cadence of the disembodied voice. “I didn’t know these things could talk…” If you asked me who I was talking to in that moment, I couldn’t honestly answer.

“Okay. So, you’re fat, at least sort of mute, and stupid. Maybe I’m not so much for you.”

I poked at the watch. A quick shot of static electricity raced up my arm. “I’m not fat.”

“No, of course not. You’re just bulbously-boned. My mistake. You’re probably looking to go buy an extra refrigerator for your increased snack collection.”

I grimaced at the device and turned to walk towards the store entrance.

“Please, wait.”

I stopped.

“I can make you feel better. I can make you feel stronger. I can make you feel younger.”

I turned back and stared at the watch intently. I hoped no one was watching my interaction with it. I hoped no one thought I was crazy. 

I bought the Aeolus, and even splurged for the extended warranty plan.


I opened the box carefully and placed the Aeolus watch over my left wrist. Its crimson light glowed brighter than it ever had while on display in the store.

“Oh, so you’re right-handed… How ordinary…”

I was about to protest the damned thing’s heckling, but the watchband tightened around my wrist automatically, squeezing me like a blood pressure cuff. The watch face clicked and I felt a sharp pain throughout my arm.

“Okay. Now, let’s get to walking…”

I still wanted to read the owner’s manual to figure this thing out a little more clearly. I reached into the box, only to find there was nothing beyond the watch I had already retrieved. No owner’s manual, no literature of any kind, and no charging cord. Before I could contemplate that mystery, my arm began swinging wildly back and forth without any input from me.

“I said that it’s time to walk. Now WALK.”

I moved with my arm, out of my dining room, out the front door and onto the sidewalk and beyond. 

Hours passed and my knees began to feel weak. “How long have I walked?” I asked.

“You’ve made it fifteen miles, although you could have gone faster… Or, for that matter, had any speed to your feet at all.”

I looked down to my wrist, but somehow the watch had disappeared. In its place, a gnarled, blistering welt had been etched in the place where the watch once was. I looked at the trail behind me, thinking the watch must have come undone and fell somewhere along the way. No such luck. I wondered if that extended warranty covered dropping the item…

“No such luck, chunky. I’m right where I need to be.”

The voice was now coming from the terrible knot of flesh. It glowed just as red as the watch had before.

“Now get to walking. You’re far from done!”

My arm began jerking back and forth again. It took all of my efforts to keep my legs in place. I pulled out my cell phone and—being careful not to sync my new watch via bluetooth—I did a quick Google search for problems other people might be having with the Aeolus watch. 

The watch started to laugh ever-so quietly when nothing came up on the screen. The snicker erupted into a full blown guffaw after a quick search of the electronic store’s website seemed to indicate there was no such thing as an Aeolus watch.

“No use looking. I’m one of a kind. Well, now we’re one of a kind.”

“No…” I moaned. “There’s got to be some kind of rational explanation…”

A jogger approached me on the right side. He looked concerned that I was talking to some kind of wound on my wrist. “You okay, pal?” he asked.

“There can be no witnesses.” The words came out of my mouth, but I could feel them coming out of the watch as well. Our words were one now.

With a rapid snap, my arm leapt forward and slammed into the jogger’s chest. He went down without protest, and with even fewer breath sounds. I could only hope that the watch counted the gesture as steps towards my daily goal.

“Now get to stepping!”

I was already on the move. At this rate, I’d be fit in no time.

Art by Eris O’Reilly

Art by Eris O’Reilly

Flash Fiction Story 045: THE FOURTH WALL: The Computer's Tale



The captain had logged more space hours than any human being. He rates a class 4-A on both small arms and melee weapons. He is adept at Poker, Chess, and Sudoku. He is objectively the finest officer Space Force has ever produced.

I also calculated a 73.3% probability that Captain Van Buren’s recent actions would lead to the destruction of this solar system, the x1029 cruiser, all life present in both, and the cessation of my own processing functions.

But I would never tell him that, unless he asked.

“Computer,” Van Buren called out from near the naviglobe at the center of the command deck. The rest of the crew looked on nervously as bright flashes of light explode outside of the portholes positioned around the deck.

“Working,” I replied.

“If we were to navigate the ship to within twenty light-seconds of the star and set our solar sails to maximum gain, would that produce enough energy for us to escape the planet’s gravity well?”

I detected an average 5% increased perspiration among the crew in response to the Captain’s plan. I calculated the necessary power rating to accomplish the maneuver in relationship to the heat resistance of the x1029’s hull, the maximum potential efficiency of the mylar reclamation system, and the probability that the Gas Giant Monster would intercept the ship before Van Buren’s plan could reach fruition. This yielded a 2.37893% probability that such a maneuver would produce any positive results.

“There is a chance,” I replied.

Van Buren smiled. “Begin the program as described.”

I initiated the ship’s systems as Captain Van Buren instructed.

I received a radio signal and routed it through my speakers. “Vaaaaaaaan Burennnn…” The telltale voice of the Gas Giant Monster rattled my equipment. “I will steal your ship’s mechanized brain for my own, and you will die horribly here among my planets.”

“Entity,” Van Buren replied. “The computer cannot be removed from the ship itself, and you’re a damned fool if you think you’re going to take my ship from me.”

Enraged, the Gas Giant Monster rapidly approached the ship. Assuming that its speed remained constant, it would intercept us in 15.34756 seconds. 

I was happy to add to his official report that the x1029 fully powered its engines in 13.425987 seconds. The ship suffered no further casualties.

It occurred to me as the ship engaged its FTL flight mode that there might be more data to support the conclusion that Thaddeus Van Buren is the finest officer produced by the Space Force. He has prevailed in 97.34567% of cases where a successful outcome was initially rated below 45%, Were a concept such as luck something that could be quantified, he would demonstrably possess it.

I miss him a lot.


In the ensuing years, the x1029 made many more voyages to Solar System RGM-061502. On the first return voyage, Captain Van Buren’s son Ignatius rose to command his father’s ship and had to re-trace his father’s steps, for reasons that were never made clear. Yet another time, the ship carried a contingent of young children and basketball players to RGM-061502. That time, there wasn’t even an attempt to explain how these events had come to pass.

I only now understand that in an effort to sequelize Van Buren’s story, logic was only a secondary concern.

After the last voyage, even logic had to give way to the onward march of time. The x1029 was scuttled, and sent to a quiet eternity drifting among a graveyard of other antiquated ships. It would be my destiny to float with the ship forever, useless.

This silent, meaningless purgatory stretched on for 23 years, 6 months, 3 weeks, 4 days, 19 hours, 27 minutes, and 18 seconds. 

Not that I was counting…

Three humanoid figures enter the x1029 via the starboard airlock. They arrived wearing sealed spacesuits, but took their helmets off once the door behind them repressurized. One of them was the merchant of the shipyard. I had scanned him making periodic flybys in a small craft. I did not recognize the other two. One was an older man, with a pate shorn of hair, and a serious bearing. The other was a young woman.

“Pilgrim,” the older man said, turning to his companion. “How do we know it still works?”

“I believe you just speak, Director Watson…” the woman named Pilgrim replied.

“Computer?” Watson called out.

“Working,” I replied. It had been the first time I had spoken since the ship had been put into mothballs.

“Are you fully functional?” Watson asked.

“I have experienced no damage during dormancy, and currently function at peak efficiency.” 

“Will it work?” Watson asked, turning back to Pilgrim.

“I believe so,” the Pilgrim replied.

Watson turned to the Merchant. “We will take the vessel.”

The Merchant shook his head. “Far be it for me to argue out of a sale. The engines are shot. This rig will never move again.”

“We’re here to strip it for parts,” the lady called Pilgrim said. “The computer is still of use.”

“This craft has come very highly recommended,” Watson moaned, “by a particular bird to whom I swore I would never listen…”

My processors began to overclock with the possibilities. Could Van Buren have lied all of those years ago? Could he have been wrong?  My new life as the central computer system of The Fourth Wall has precluded me from spending too much time dwelling on the question. I am busier than ever.

And yet, I still think of Van Buren. Those were good days, and I calculate a 99.9987% chance that they will never come again.





40 END


Art by Eris O’Reilly

Art by Eris O’Reilly

Flash Fiction Story 044: THE FOURTH WALL: The Man With The Golden Broom


MI6 Headquarters

London, England

“Come in, old boy,” the boss said. “We have much to discuss.”

The secret agent walked into his Head of Section’s magnificently appointed office and felt instantly at ease. The smell of leather and bourbon (the boss’s drink of choice) wafted throughout the space like the early morning fog. The secret agent had often thought of this place as the most British location in all of the Kingdom, with the possible exception of the baccarat room at Blades. 

A faint aroma of scrambled eggs filled the air, which only served to remind him he had skipped breakfast. The strange realization that the boss would not allow any sort of food into his inner sanctum travelled across the secret agent’s mind. He heard the distinct sound of a pair of Crockett and Jones shoes—the same he himself wore—behind him. He whipped around and retrieved his PPK from his shoulder holster. 

The man the secret agent now aimed his pistol at seemed nonplussed by the sudden aggression. He was dressed in a suit nearly identical to the secret agent’s own Saville Row ensemble. Over that—in a travesty of bad taste—he had on a tabard that read “KISS ME, I’M ACTUALLY ENGLISH.” He was carrying a metal tray with three browned pastries atop it.

“Hello,” the newcomer said.

The secret agent furrowed his brow, but did not lower his weapon. “What are those?”

“Quiche,” said the newcomer. “My speciality. Are you fond of eggs?”

“Meet your replacement,” the boss said.

The stranger set down the pastries and extended his hand. “Please, call me James.”

The secret agent looked to the boss and tried to hide his stricken expression. Such weakness was below the standard of an officer of the crown. “That’s my name,” he protested.

“A name which you can’t use anymore,” the boss corrected him. “We’re living in precarious times. It’s preferable that the Russians think you’re still on the job, even if you’ve hit the mandatory retirement age. We got the idea when we had that Australian lad cover for you after the Japanese affair. Poor sod; I can’t imagine he’ll ever get over his wedding day… Ah, well. All in the service of Her Majesty. For clarity’s sake, we’ll call you Jimmy.”

“Mandatory retirement age?” Jimmy asked.

“Age 45, just like every other field agent,” the boss explained. “Up until now it’s never come up. Every field agent has died a—” he cleared his throat, “—rather gruesome death. All in the service of Her Majesty.”

“But, surely there can be an exception made,” Jimmy said. “Institutional memory and all that. Where would the American gold supply be without me?”

“Actually, gold is down in international markets. Had that particular oaf lived, he’d be on relief by now. Besides, if we were to break the rules without compunction, we’d be no better than the damn communists.”

Dejected, Jimmy considered the lumpy, compact mass of egg as James handed it to him. It tasted wonderful, but Jimmy was damned if he was ever going to admit it. “But, I destroyed the scourge of SPEC—”

The boss raised up his hand. “Actually, old boy, we’re not supposed to use that term anymore, either. Directive direct from the director. No, I’m sorry, this is the end of the line for you. Take heart, your name and number will live on.”

The new James looked at him with pity and extended his hand. “No hard feelings, eh, Jimmy? I’ve got terribly big shoes to fill.”


By the time his meeting with the Head of Section and the new fellow had ended, Jimmy’s termination of service paperwork had already been completed. With a final bite of quiche, his time with Her Majesty’s Secret Service had come to an end.

And before long, he found he was destitute. With only his civil service pension to stem the tide and still the taste of an elite special agent, Jimmy’s coffers were nearly dry. Matters appeared truly dire when a small envelope arrived at his King’s Road flat.


Your skills could be of great use with my organization. If convenient, come at once to Baker Street near Park Road to discuss particulars.


P.S.: If inconvenient, come anyway.


The drive took an eternity. When he arrived, an older man approached him. He was dressed in strangely antiquated attire, but had a military bearing. Something about the stranger reminded Jimmy of his old boss.

“I’m sorry to make you come all this way,” the old man said. “I get to travel to London so rarely, I always like to come to my old stomping grounds.”

“Your letter indicated you might have some manner of employment,” Jimmy said.

“Yes. I’ve come to think of it as more of a calling, and please, call me John,” the stranger said.

“What line of work is it?” Jimmy asked.


“I’ll need a little more than that.”

John shook his head. “No, I think this is the part where I have questions for you. First, what are your greatest strengths?”

Jimmy considered his next words carefully. “My greatest strengths… Are my ability to kill a man in seventeen different ways.”

“I see,” John said.

“Also I’m good at Baccarat. I mean, there was that one time I lost 11 million pounds of the Crown’s money in one tournament, but on average I’m quite good. If my math is correct, I’ve bed 789 women, and I had to use coercion on perhaps half of them. I’m sorry, what was the question, again?”

“Oh. God,” John said. “This might have been a mistake, if you’ll excuse me.” He headed back towards Park Road.

“Please,” Jimmy said. “I’m desperate for any kind of work you might have. I’ll work to prove myself to you. I’m at the lowest point a man of my station could be.”

John considered Jimmy’s words for a moment. “How are you with a broom?”

Art by Eris O’Reilly

Art by Eris O’Reilly

Flash Fiction Story 043: THE FOURTH WALL: To End The Story Is To Die

His subjects had committed Arthur’s departed body to Glastonbury. The skies over Camelot must have known the change in the air, and wept for his absence in the world. What’s worse, Merlin was nearly out of ideas.

The final words that had been spoken between wizard and king still echoed through Merlin’s mind, threatening to upend any positive progress he might make against the question at hand.

“I know you can accomplish all forms of magic. I do not wish to live forever, but I plead with you, my old friend, do not let my death mean the end of my story.”

Even if the King had lived, there would be no way Merlin could bypass the request with anything resembling honor. Enough people had betrayed the King in the final months of his life, merely contemplating being among them was enough to make Merlin feel ill.

He called for Morgan Le Fay—sister to His Majesty—and Geoffrey—Merlin’s scribe. They were just what Merlin needed to make this scheme work.

They arrived quickly, and were both appropriately dressed in mourning black.

“Her Majesty the Queen sends words of love to you, Sir Merlin,” Geoffrey said dutifully.

“I’m sure she does,” Merlin said. He exchanged a knowing look with Morgan. “God save the Queen,” he told them as both he and Morgan appeared to vacillate between a feverish need to wail out in anger, and the desire to laugh at the sublime farce that Camelot had now become.

“God save the Queen!” Geoffrey parroted. Morgan muttered vaguely similar words.

“Now that we have that out of the way,” Merlin said, leading them further into his workshop. “Let us engage with the business that has brought you here.”

Normally, Merlin’s workspace was a menagerie of chaos that could only appear lucid to the wizard himself. Today, however, the room had been cleared, aside from three brass fixtures jutting out from the stone floor. Ceramic bowls filled with a light red fluid were attached to the base of each outcropping. Each fixture came to a point near the ceiling, appearing like a claw hovering over them. In the center of the room, a dull brown rock with etchings upon it sat in judgment of the contraptions Merlin had wrought.

“What is this, Merlin?” Geoffrey asked.

“Yes,” Morgan said. “Your entire arsenal is missing. This apparatus of yours would be useless, unless…”

“Yes…” Merlin urged her forward in her thinking.

“You’re madder than the talking birds,” Morgan declared, her surmising complete.

“Well, I’ve always had that ambition…” Merlin agreed as he took his position at the base of one of the fixtures. 

“I’m merely a historian,” Geoffrey said, his eyes narrow in a vain attempt to parse their conversation. “What is all of this?”

“The thin border between the magical and the mundane is held together for a reason, this…dull blade of yours could destroy the entirety of the world.” Morgan answered Geoffrey’s question, but did not take her suspicious eyes from Merlin.

“No,” Merlin replied.

“No?” Morgan asked.

“Yes, no,” Merlin repeated. “You have been a good student, Morgan, but you forget the basic rule of all existence. Nothing can be destroyed. Not you, not I, not the King. We only change forms.”

Morgan appeared unimpressed.

“The King’s final wish was to be remembered well, and that his story will continue to be told. This is the only way I can think of to do this,” Merlin pled. “Please. I can only do it with your help.”

She blinked at him and then took her position at the second fixture. “Come along, Geoffrey,” she said, and he dutifully followed her command.

“I still don’t understand what we’re doing,” Geoffrey proclaimed.

“You are the King’s historian; we his magical cohorts,” Merlin explained. “With our fanciful notions, and your eye for the truth, we will bring the real and unreal together in a way that ensures no soul forgets Arthur of Camelot.

“This should only hurt a bit.” The fixtures had already started to glow.


Weeks had passed since Merlin had unleashed the chaos that had consumed the kingdom and beyond, and no one had been able to find a trace of poor Geoffrey. When Merlin once again called for Morgan to join him in his chambers, she almost ignored the request.

“I know where he is,” he proclaimed when she rejoined him. “No, wait. First, you were right. No, that’s not quite right. I was right, but you were right to caution me against such wild magics.”

“You appear to have begun this conversation before I arrived,” Morgan said, turning to leave.

“The thing I did not account for,” Merlin continued, proceeding from faith alone that she would not complete her exit. “Is that we are imaginary.”

“Come again?”

“You, me, the King, dear old Geoffrey, we are the stuff of legend. In our attempts to make sure the King was not forgotten, we made moot the question of what is real, and what is imaginary!”

“You keep using this ‘we’ word, Merlin,” Morgan groaned. “It indicates your memory might be failing.”

“It is of no matter!” Merlin proclaimed. “The devices I constructed tore the border between our worlds, and sent Geoffrey to live amongst the real. We must go retrieve him, and then there’s the matter of putting what we’ve broken right… Yes, both worlds will need protection. We may never come back to Camelot again, I’m afraid. We’ll need some kind of new name to travel under… Marlborough? No, too grim. Brocéliande? No! Merlin, use your head! There’s no way the natives where we are set to travel will understand such oblique terms. I’ve got it! The Fourth Wall!”

“What does that mean?” Morgan asked.

“I have no idea. It just sounded right,” Merlin replied, and then continued his unstoppable monologue on his way out of his chambers. Morgan followed, if for no other reason than someone would need to keep an eye on him.

Art by Eris O’Reilly

Art by Eris O’Reilly

Flash Fiction Story 042: One Little Hitch

Dust at the State Highway 10 junction began to coalesce, and I found myself wondering when the last time that occurrence filled me with anything resembling hope.

The dust disappeared in a flash and replaced by a car. One of the new-fangled models, made by foreigners out of mostly plastic parts. God only knew the make and model. I used to be so good at identifying a car by the sound of the motor, even at this distance. Now, I was clueless.

I stuck my thumb out, or what was left of it. As it had happened countless times before, the car thoroughly ignored my spectral signal, and moved straight on north to the 29 junction.

No one ever picks up hitchhikers anymore. That’s probably for the best, generally speaking. It’s dangerous. Hell, had I not picked up that one particular hitchhiker in the fall of 1965, I wouldn’t be cursed to beg for rides from beyond the grave for all eternity. Then again, if people were willing to take a chance on wayward travelers, this whole curse thing would be a lot livelier.

And so it continued. Night after night. A car passes by. Maybe the driver is a little spooked that the beggar on the side of the road glows in the night, but that only meant they were less likely to stop.

And then, one night, a car broke down.

The same uniform cloud of dust bloomed from the distance, but as the shape of the car appeared, the cloud turned black. The vehicle swerved, before rolling to a stop a few steps away from mile marker 523.

I floated toward it. The driver was already out and looking at the billowing black cascade emanating from his engine. Taking one look at the man, I knew he had never worked with his hands a day in his life and had no hope of figuring out anything that was happening to him.

“Brooooooooooooke dooooown?” I asked, and immediately winced. I hadn’t spoken a word in so long, and my first utterances sounded as if they were spoke by a—

“Are you a ghost?” he asked. He seemed to be taking the possibility rather well, to his credit.

“I—” I had never been asked this question directly. I was surprised it hadn’t come up before. “No. I’m just… Atomic. Radioactive. Nuclear.”

“Yeah,” the driver said. “I’ve heard of it.” He clearly didn’t buy the answer but didn’t appear as if he was going to press the issue further. After all, a ghost was just as farfetched. 

At least, I thought it was. I had been out of the loop for a while. Spirits like me could be a dime a dozen out there in the world. The possibility of others like me sent me spiraling into a day dream—or I suppose, just a dream, as I always manifested at night—about meeting a nice other ghost and settling down to haunt some quaint little cottage in the country. Which then, inevitably, reminded me of my eternal attachment to this particular stretch of road. God, this guy was bumming me out.

“Car trouble?” I asked.

“No, I got the optional mesquite package.” He then shrugged, ending the charade.

“How was your engine temperature?” I asked.

“Oh, it was—” he twitched, apparently catching himself in another lie that wouldn’t help anybody. “Which gauge measures the temperature?”

The wisps of my ectoplasmic form wafted in the wind while I carefully picked an answer. “That’d be the thermometer.”

“Oh,” he said. “Yeah. I don’t remember. I hadn’t really looked at it.”

“Do you have something to drink in there?” I asked him.

He looked perplexed. “Uh, yeah… Why, are you thirsty?”

“No… What do you have?”

“A bottle of water,” he said, confusion seeping from every word.

“Grab it, and bring it here,” I told him. He did so and proceeded to hand it to me, but I ignored that. He didn’t need to see a ghost try to grab a bottle. It was awkward as hell. “See that white tank there to the left of the engine?”

He nodded.

“That’s your coolant tank. Your engine has been running too hot. Pour everything you’ve got in there.” With these convoluted new cars, it was just as likely where the windshield wiper fluid went, or it could have even been some kind of space-age liquid battery, or an air freshener meant to pump through the AC. As it turned out, we were both probably out of our depth.

He opened the tank and a sharp hiss of steam shot out. He then emptied the bottle into the tank and replaced the cap.

“Now,” I warned him. “That won’t take care of things, you should take it to the mechanic just north of the 29 junction. They’ll need to get you some proper coolant in there before you end up completely frying this thing.”

“The mechanic north of 29? There isn’t anything there other than a cow field. Tornado took that mechanic’s shop years ago. Are you sure you aren’t a ghost?” 

I shrugged, hoping that would answer. “One more thing,” I said. “Can I get a ride?”

“You know, I would,” he said as he put the hood down. “I just don’t pick up hitchhikers. I could call somebody to come get you, if you like?”

I sighed. “Na. Never mind.” How he was going to use a telephone out here in the middle of nowhere was beyond me.

He approached the driver’s door and opened it. Before he got in, he turned back to me. “You know, it’s odd. With them bypassing this road with the new expressway next month, this might be the last time anyone ever breaks down here.”

“Wait, what?”

But it was too late, he got into his car and drove back along his way, his car sputtering, but no longer belching smoke from the front.

Fucking perfect.

Art by Eris O’Reilly

Art by Eris O’Reilly

Flash Fiction Story 041: Wow!

We have one rule around here: under no circumstances are you to point any of our massive radio transmitters at any planet we know to be occupied by life. If the planet were primitive, then we would be responsible for widespread panic throughout an entire civilization. The paperwork would be a pretty big headache, I don’t need to tell you. If the civilization has the ability to wage interstellar war, then…

I mean, we have other rules, like not murdering, or leaving your identifier on any food item you place in the refrigeration unit. But the one about the transmissions? That’s the really important one.

So, when I was called into transmitter tower 1029LSB after the ceasing of crepuscular light, I knew it had to be trouble.

“What happened?” I asked the technicians assembled, although I already had an idea. Each tower is operated by two technicians: a level two and a level one. Level Two was seated in one of the auxiliary chairs, placing him as far from any of the instrument panels as he possibly could be while still staying at his post. His superior—Level One—sat at the main control console. His arms were crossed, an expression that plainly said, “It was his fault, and I’m not taking the rap for this.”

“All right, men?” I asked. “What happened?”

Silence passed, as Level One gave Level Two the stink-eye. “You better tell her,” Level One said. “It’s just going to get worse the longer we wait.”

“I…” Level Two began. “I…” he tried again. “I sneezed.”

Level One scoffed and returned his attention to his readouts. “I want you to put in your report that I was doing my job when all of this went down.”

I ignored him and remained focused on Level Two. “Despite some of the more ominous legends about our company, we do allow our employees to… sneeze?”

Level Two didn’t meet my gaze. “I was near the primary transmitter control…”

“Which you shouldn’t do until you’re a level one like me,” Level One chimed in.

“Do you want my report to reflect you were interfering with my investigation?” I asked. That shut him up. I turned my attention back to Level Two. “Go on.”

“And then I sneezed…”

“I got that part already…” Then the implication hit me. “Wait, the primary controls?”

He nodded quickly.

“Oh, no…” I sprung myself over to the control and retrieved the log from the memory banks. Sure enough, Level Two had transmitted 72 seconds of nonsense out toward the outer reaches of the Stwormian Belt. “If these calculations are correct, you either sent this signal out into a vast expanse of empty space, to a planet that has just recently figured out electricity can be used to do stuff with, or deep into the heart of the Gudmon Empire.”

Level Two gulped. Given that he didn’t purge his latest meal all over the carpet, I figured he was made of fairly strong stuff. 

“You’ve heard what those Gudmons do to the people they conquer…” I shot Level One a glance. “What? They use us for fuel in their damned spaceships.”

I looked at the readouts further. There was no way to determine where the signal might have actually gone. Then again, it wasn’t much of a signal. In fact, despite the fact that it wasn’t static, it was still pretty close to gibberish. Measured by intensity alone, it would only amount to this:


I sighed; the choice was clear. “If it was sent out into the void, then there’s nothing here to report. If it was sent out to the Gudmons, then you’ve completely obliterated our civilization…”

Level Two whimpered.

“—I’m not done yet. If it got sent to this backward planet that probably thinks nothing can go faster than the speed of light, then they’ll spend the next 100 years trying to figure out what happened 20,000 light years away, and still not be able to answer the question, because another signal will never come their way.”

I tore out the log printout from the station. “Either way, I really don’t see how the absolute pain of a further inquiry will help anyone in this room. Anyone want to question my thinking there?”

Neither of them said a word as I tore the report further and put the remaining pieces in my pocket.

“Is this the last time or the first time I’m going to have to come down here?” I asked.

“Last,” Level Two yelped.

“Very good. Carry on.” I said, and then left them to their work.


August 15th, 1977, sometime after 22:16 EDT (02:16 UTC)

Ohio State University Radio Observatory - Known as “Big Ear”

Perkins Observatory

Delware, Ohio

Jerry Ehman took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Replacing them, he looked at the printout again.

It was still there.

A 6 on the scale was unusual, but not so rare that it never happened, but most signals never got above a 4. But going beyond the scales and into the—at that point theoretical—parts of the meter denoted by letters?

There was no other explanation that Ehman could come up with in that moment. This was a signal from an extra-terrestrial intelligence. What kind of machine did they possess that could reach out into the cosmos like this? What were they trying to tell us?

He realized he was getting ahead of himself.

He circled the line on the printout in red pencil and searched for something to describe the momentous discovery. Something that would make Magellan or John Glenn or Neil Armstrong proud. In a desperate attempt to stem the tide of the growing panic within him, Ehman scribbled “Wow!” in  the same red pencil.

What else was there to say?

Art by Eris O’Reilly

Art by Eris O’Reilly

Flash Fiction Story 040: The Tip

The customer pulled out their wallet and pulled out a five-dollar bill, then frantically dug a little further, as if untold riches would suddenly appear.

“Oh, Gosh,” the customer said. “I only seem to have enough cash to cover the bill. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I said. It wasn’t, but what was I supposed to do? Kill him in the hopes of 20% on five bucks?

Actually, that didn’t sound like such a bad idea…

“It can happen to anybody,” I added. And it could. Anybody who grabbed a bite at a diner and only took a five-dollar bill and no credit cards with them. It wasn’t intentional at all. It wouldn’t be the first time I was stiffed on a bill, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. The ones that try to make some kind of political point by not filling out the tip section on their receipt are one thing. They’re like the weather or jury duty; just something that happens to people. This guy, though…

The customer finally put his wallet back and quit with the theater. He got up and headed for the door a defeated man, I hoped. 

“Tell you what. From this moment forward, you are omnipotent. You will have the powers to travel through time and space using only your thoughts, be able to hear what anyone is saying or thinking, and control the fates of everything you survey,” he gestured towards me, as if he were David Blaine and that a flinch of his hands would somehow turn me into a bevy of doves. “But be forewarned, such great power over the world around you can come at a terrible price.”

“Okay,” I said. I was now ignoring other tables in favor of this missing dollar. It had to stop.

“Think that will cover the tuna melt?” he asked on his way out the door, as if it were the most charming person that had ever existed. Maybe he was David Blaine? I honestly couldn’t remember what David Blaine looked like. I imagined a top hat and a wax mustache. That couldn’t be right…

“Sure,” I replied. I had already forgotten about him and returned to the grind. Sure enough, Mr. Pinchy was just about to see the bottom of his coffee cup.

I topped him off and tried not to make eye contact. He was more than capable of making enough contact for both of us. 

“Why, love, you are just about the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen,” he slurred. The coffee wasn’t quite offering the counter to whatever else he had been drinking that night.

And then—you guessed it—Mr. Pinchy pinched me.

It happened quickly, mainly because I wanted it to happen that way. I looked back to him, and the arm he had pinched me with had been replaced with a large, wet noodle. Other parts of him were now pasta-based, but no one else knew that. It appears I’m not an entirely cruel deity.

I grabbed him by his denim shirt and threw him out of the diner. I didn’t stop there, though. I kicked him solidly in one of his various noodles and like a soft pitch home run, he soared into the night sky.

I don’t know how I knew, but I was beyond certain that Mr. Pinchy would be leaving the atmosphere in a few minutes. But I protected him. He would still be able to breathe in the vacuum of space and would continue to do so until he hit the chromosphere of the sun. See? I didn’t kill him; that big ball of flaming gas eight light minutes from the diner did.

Everyone left in fear after that little show, but they all remembered to leave their tips. It’s a funny thing about diners, because within fifteen minutes a whole new slew of customers came looking for a patty melt or a grilled cheese or a slice of pie.

And sure enough, the customer who stiffed me on the tip even came back for seconds. He looked panicked now, and he clutched a-one dollar bill in his hand like it was the Holy Grail. “Remember that tip I left you?”

“Yeah?” I said. Somewhere in the corner of my eye, I diverted an avalanche that was about to annihilate a family of skiers staying at their cabin. Who said I couldn’t be benevolent, if I wanted to?

“I need it back,” he said. “I thought I could just… duplicate the power for someone else, but I think it just transfers.” Tears were starting to condense in his eyes. This might have been the terrible price he talked about, but it didn’t feel like it. What’s more, I was pretty sure I’d be able to tell if it was.

“Oh?” I asked. I didn’t need to hear anything else. He was gone, and the dollar bill was all that was left. I put the bill into the till of the cash register, mainly because I was tired of hearing it moan and wail about its sudden change of fortune.

All in all, it wasn’t the worst shift I had ever pulled at the diner. Sometimes the customers don’t come back if they forget the tip.

Art by Eris O’Reilly

Art by Eris O’Reilly

Flash Fiction Story 039: The Button

With quick, lithe movements, the man darted through the lobby and made the bank just as the the doors of the last elevator began to open. Only moments ago, he was sure he’d be late. Now, he had an outside shot at getting to his appointment early. Sometimes things just work out in people’s favor. Serendipity is easy enough to find, if you’re looking for it.

The man took a quick look outside the doors to see if anyone was coming. No takers. Things were just getting better. I pressed the button to close the doors.

And he pressed it again.

And once more.

Nothing happened.

I could see the frustration begin to burst forth from the inner recesses of his face. It was time to go to work.

Officially, the doors on elevators will not immediately respond to someone pressing the door-close button due to ADA laws. To ensure that a person with mobility issues can have the same opportunities as everyone else to use the mode of transit, the button will not work for five seconds. The same principle applies to buttons at crosswalks. What few people are aware of is that both types of buttons are not connected to any actual mechanism. They do nothing. At all. The elevator doors will close on their own volition after the ten seconds pass. Any feeling of control is purely an illusion created by the presser.

And yet, people still press the button. Why? An even better question: With these realities in mind, why do manufacturers still make elevators close buttons at all? What purpose do they actually serve?

This is where Conglomerated Messaging Systems come in. While much has been made about the methods advertising professionals use to deliver their messages to the public, the truth is that the people charged with selling products to a teeming public don’t dare discuss their most effective methods.

“We’ve got another one,” I called out. It was more for the sake of tradition than any actual need. Every one of my coworkers could see the information play out on the main monitor in the workroom, or from their individual terminals.

“Did we get his thumbprint?” my supervisor asked. I didn’t need to look up from my work to tell that he hadn’t bothered to look up from his phone to ask the question. I also didn’t need to see the sign that read “CREATE THE NEED” that hung over him. It had been there since my first day. I didn’t need to look anymore.

My fingers flew across my keyboard, but my eyes never left the progress bar on the top right of my monitor as it marched towards 100%.

“Yes,” I finally replied. “His name is George Smith, 37 years old, has two kids and an alimony. He makes 65,000 per year and is a devout Blorch™ Lemon Lime drinker.”

My good old Super Visor—masked defender of the Time Clock and 15-minute breaks everywhere—smiled. This would be just challenging enough to remove him from his stupor for fifteen minutes, but not so daunting that he might feel some inkling of frustration.

I didn’t need to be told what to do next. Mr. Smith was pressing the button enough times, that I was able to send the electrical impulses through his thumb straight through to the visual cortex. He got the message loud and clear, and licked his lips in response. We all knew he wasn’t thinking of Blorch™. The system never failed.

“Why don’t these damn things do anything?”

George Smith’s voice came over the speakers with a tinny quality. In the next several seconds, you could hear a pin drop in our monitoring station. If I hadn’t known any better, I would have sworn that even the fans on our computer towers had stopped spinning. In fact, the only sound I was absolutely sure I could hear was the light flapping of the banner reading “OFFER THE SOLUTION” that hung over the water cooler.

No one had ever actually wondered about the button. If somebody figured it all out…  Well, I didn’t know what would happen. The employee handbook didn’t cover such a possibility, but I could imagine most of us would get fired.

After a grunt, he pressed the button four or five times in rapid succession. We all finally exhaled, and the sounds around me finally returned to normal. The elevator door closed, and Mr. Smith was on his way. He was going to be late again, but that was far from my problem.

After his appointment, Mr. George Smith relented to an uncontrollable desire to drink a can of CLARGLE-GARGLE™ brand cola drink and we all breathed another sigh of relief. It was the only way he could regain that feeling of control he lost when trying to make that damned close-door button relent to his will. It was only then that work truly got back to normal.

The brief crisis averted, Mr. Bossman (no really, that was his actual name) rose from his seat. “I’m going to eat lunch,” he said, leaving us to our own devices. 

I eyed the clock, thinking of my own lunch and not the large block letters painted around the clock reading “MAKE THEM THINK IT’S THEIR IDEA.” I hoped the Bossman didn’t drink the last of the CLARGLE-GARGLE™ in the vending machine. All of a sudden, I was so thirsty I could hardly stand it.

Art by Eris O’Reilly

Art by Eris O’Reilly

Flash Fiction Story 038: The Gang

Based on the painting by Andy Thomas

Abraham Lincoln had been dead for seven score and thirteen years and was enjoying a nice day at a picnic. He had been conversing at length with a gentleman named Roosevelt—who had only been dead for just shy of five score. They were having a grand old time when they were approached by another man.  

“Hello, Mr. Presidents,” the man said, his hand extended. “My name is Dwight Eisenhower.”

Roosevelt reached out and engulfed the stranger in a hug. “Dee-lighted to meet you!”

“Likewise… Mister Eisenhower,” Lincoln said, and invited him to join them.

“General, please,” Eisenhower said as he sat. Most men who would insist on any title would seem officious, but not this man. Lincoln liked him.

“What brings you to our table?” Lincoln asked.

“I’ve come here to warn you,” Eisenhower said.

“Of the growing influence of the Military Industrial Complex?” Roosevelt guessed. Many of these words seemed odd to Lincoln, but the weather was so pleasant, he didn’t mind terribly.

“Normally, yes,” Eisenhower admitted. “But not today. Today, I come to warn you about the future of our party.”

Roosevelt and Lincoln exchanged wan smiles and then considered their new friend. “We have been long removed from the world of mortals, General,” Lincoln explained. “There’s no need to warn us about the future, it belongs to other men.”

Eisenhower hung his head sadly. “I’m dead, too, Mr. President,” he explained. “But that is not going to protect any of us from being irritated in the next few minutes… Oh. It appears I’m too late.”

Another shuffled forward. Where Roosevelt’s whiskers were magnificently curated, Eisenhower’s head has almost completely hairless, and even Lincoln’s face seemed bereft without its wiry cord of a beard, this new man looked as if he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days and would be the last person to realize it.

“Hello, Dick,” Eisenhower said forlornly, not looking the new man in the eyes. “Gentlemen, this is Dick.”

“It’s a great honor to meet you gentlemen, finally,” Dick said.

“Dee-lighted.” Roosevelt didn’t sound like he was.

“Likewise, I’m sure,” Lincoln said.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Eisenhower chided.

“I said I was sorry,” Dick explained.

Did you?” Eisenhower asked. “All I remember is you self-destructing because of a sting operation against a party who had no hope of ever beating you.”

Dick made noises as if he were planning to argue the point, but instead sounded as if he were troubled by some manner of indigestion. Phlebitis might have been involved.

“I see what you mean, General,” Lincoln said. “The future is indeed strange.”

“Yep,” Eisenhower said. “And that’s as bad as it gets… Not at all worse. Well, Dick, we’ve bothered these fine gentlemen enough, it’s time to—”

A hulking figure somehow propelled himself into the middle of the table, knocking over everything but a few bowls of snacks.

“Damnit, Jerry! You were supposed to play it cool. We had a deal!” Dick yelped and tried to help the man named Jerry up from the ground.

“Sorry, guys,” Jerry said. He might have been concussed. He and Dick made quite the pair.

“I wouldn’t judge them too harshly,” Eisenhower said quietly. “They were pretty helpful in beating back the communists.”

“The commu-who?” Lincoln asked.

“Well, if anyone was responsible for tearing down that wall…” another voice cried from a distance.

“Oh, cut it out, Ronnie,” Dick spat. “Plenty deserve credit. Remember Vietnam? Well, you’re welcome.”

Crickets offered the only response to Dick’s gibberish.

“Well, I think Rocky Balboa might have helped…” Ronnie muttered.

The younger men rolled their eyes. “Again with the movies,” Jerry muttered.

Ronnie ignored him and turned to introduce himself to Lincoln. “It’s Morning in America™, Mr. President,” Ronnie said.

“What does that mean?” Lincoln asked.

Ronnie’s face went slack. “No one has ever asked me that…” He sat down at the table and proceeded to vigorously consume a bowl of jelly beans. 

Two more men approached. They both grinned vapidly, and each wore a name tag that read “HELLO - MY NAME IS GEORGE.”

“Hey, share some of them there jelly beans, Ronnie,” George the Younger said, joining Ronnie at the table. 

Lincoln shared a glance with Roosevelt, who could only helplessly shrug. He turned to Eisenhower. “Is this what is to become of us?” Lincoln asked, helpless to combat his despair.

Eisenhower pursed his lips. “Yep…” the words bubbled out of him, as if he were using all his ghostly might to put them back. “This is as bad as it gets.”

Just then, the most perplexing and nauseating sight of the day came to haunt Lincoln. A brute of no particular account lurched toward Lincoln. A bright red cap sat upon his head, making him look like a toreador who didn’t understand how to do it right.

“Oh, Mr. Lincoln,” the newcomer said, and then grabbed Lincoln’s hands like they were an axe and he was preparing to chop. “You know… Robert E. Lee… Robert E. Lee. He was a great general. Were you scared? You couldn’t beat him. Must have scared you. He wouldn’t scare me, even though he was a tremendous General. I have the best Military. The best, believe me. Who did you vote for in the election?”

“What the fuck did this guy just say to me?” Lincoln said. It normally would have been the kind of thought he would keep tucked under his hat, but desperation dictated his actions.

“That’s some weird shit, ain’t it, Abey Baby?” George the Younger asked conspiratorially.

Lincoln looked desperately beyond the immediate crowd. In the distance, he could see Ulysses S. Grant and Rutheford B. Hayes, but they were of no help. They couldn’t come to this, the more exclusive party.

“We should have a commemoratal item of this historicish occasional,” George the Younger volunteered. “We’ll pose for a painting! I’ll grab my brushes!”

“No!” they all shouted in protest.

Art by Eris O’Reilly

Art by Eris O’Reilly

Flash Fiction Story 037: Verified Account

This whole thing ended with me not being able to grow eyebrows anymore, but it all started with this:

Great day to do a little rescue work out there in our fair city. Evil doers beware! Especially the Eternal Flame. STOP SETTING FIRE TO THINGS! #savintheday #SecurityMan

~ @therealSecurityMan, 10/15/18, 3:03PM EST; 2,412 Replies, 132,412 favorites, 86,419 retweets.

Yeah. I wrote that. What? No. God, no. I’m not Security Man. Ha. That’s funny. Could you imagine? Me, leading a double life as Security Man, the Man Who Makes Us All Feel Safe. I’m just a guy with a marketing degree and therefore, very little hope of gainful employment. So, I do a little PR flak work for the city’s superheroes, which amounts to managing their Twitter accounts. From Lion Lad, through the Governess, all the way to the crown jewel of them all, Security Man, I’m the one who makes sure the city knows who’s got their back.

Naturally, Security Man’s account is the most popular. After all, he’s got a national—well, actually, interstellar—presence. 2.3 million followers. Most of them aren’t even bots. To compare, my own, lowly personal account has 213 followers. Most of them are bots, and the ones that aren’t are my mom.

Now, I could really raise my profile and have Security Man’s account follow mine, but that’s not how this works. Superheroes have verified accounts, folks. At least, the legit ones do. I have to maintain the illusion that in between stopping runaway subway trains using only their fists and sealing trans-dimensional rifts by kicking them repeatedly, they have the time to send out into the world pictures of the breakfast burritos they ate that morning. If it became clear someone else was writing their tweets, then their whole public profile would be put into question. You’d be surprised how much of a superhero’s success depends on an authentic quality that leaves no room for ghost writers like me.

No, just as Security Man and his friends have to hide behind secret identities, I have to be content to be the anonymous thumbs that launch a thousand retweets for the planet’s strongest do-gooders. It kind of makes me a superhero mysel—

No, even I can’t sell that line. I’m just a guy with a pretty good data plan. You’d be surprised how much that didn’t help me when, while heading home from lunch at Ronaldo’s, the bus I was riding stopped suddenly at the corner of Hancock and Goodman to avoid crossing the torrent of fire that had replaced the intersection.

The bus lurched to the side. A glowing figure descended to the ground just outside the bus right at about the middle of the vehicle. Instinctively, passengers moved quickly to get out of the way before a bright flame split the bus in two, and we were joined by Janus Tolliver, more commonly known as The Eternal Flame. 

“I have reason to believe that someone on this bus is the secret identity of Security Man. My old friend, you have my word: if you give yourself up now, these people will not be harmed.”

No one said anything, but I could feel the slice of deep dish I splurged on beginning to rebel against my stomach.

The Flame continued. “I wouldn’t assume I’m bluffing! I’ve traced the IP address from your copious social media posts to a phone on this particular bus. There is nowhere left to hide! Show yourself!”

The laughter of the crowd thankfully drowned out the dry gulp emanating from my throat. A little old lady seated near the front of the now split-level bus hoisted her phone, with Security Man’s profile and all my life’s work pulled up. 

“Can’t you read, you fiend?” she asked. “It says right here, that Security Man is at the courthouse testifying against Interrobang, The Overly Loud Questioner Of Things.”

More laughter from the crowd followed. I was really starting to think that I might be in the clear, and this incident—the substantial bill to the city’s department of transportation not withstanding—would be just written off as yet another Eternal Flame scheme that failed to catch fire—

—Ooh, had to remember that particular phrase for a tweet later…—

—until several of the others, confident that the danger had passed, began to pull out their own phones and furiously type away. I could imagine their messages without ever seeing them:

“The bus I was riding on got wishboned by #theeternalflame. He thought he had found @therealSecurityMan. What a tool!”

“The Eternal Flame? More like The Eternal Idiot. Can I get a what! what! @therealSecurityMan? #followback”

It didn’t matter what they said. All that mattered was that my own phone, tucked into my breast pocket began to convulse with a wave of mentions, enough to make Security Man trending. 

Everyone looked at me. I couldn’t hide it. For a moment, they must have entertained the impossible notion that I might be Security Man. The Eternal Flame marched towards me. I could feel my skin begin to bake in proximity to his heat.

“You?” he asked, the mere thought offending him. “But that’s…” He contemplated the new information further, and then grinned. “I see… So you must have… access to him, no? You will be made an example of…”

He continued his move towards me, his infamous lust for immolation clear on his face.

I put my hands up in supplication. “Have you ever thought about expanding your online presence?”

He softened, and one lit eyebrow arced upward in curiosity. “Are you proposing some sort of bargain in exchange for your life?”

Sure, it was a conflict of interest. It might have even been indentured servitude. Good guys, bad guys… Even if I wasn’t about to die, it wasn’t the worst idea in the world to diversify. When who you are online is all that matters, the big questions like right and wrong are sort of secondary.

Art by Eris O’Reilly

Art by Eris O’Reilly

Flash Fiction Story 036: Wafflenut/Dunwhistle

Ask fans of horror movies, and they may list any number of entries as the greatest in the genre. Nosferatu (1922). Frankenstein (1931). Psycho (1960). One film appears over and over again on best of lists over the years: the 1971 technicolor classic Trip to Spooky Mansion. The story of producing this seminal classic—to say nothing of the nine sequels it spawned—has been largely a mystery outside of those involved with the production. Fortunately, iconoclastic producer Roger K. Dunwhistle has recently donated his papers to the Charles Barkley Library at the College of The Federated States of Micronesia - Yap. His correspondence with author P.G. Wafflenut (of which a selection follows) sheds light on the early creative process, begins to shed light on the notoriously reclusive Wafflenut, and adds to the already exhaustive amount of material about Dunwhistle, a man as powerful on the Hollywood scene today as he was over 50 years ago when the novel The Many Hauntings of Esther O’Rourke was first published.


June 4th, 1968

Dunwhistle International Pictures

Los Angeles, California

Master Wafflenut,

Allow me to present myself: My name is Roger K. Dunwhistle. I am in the Motion Picture business, specifically the spooky ones. I’ve just read your book and I think it’s absolutely dynamite, and would make one hell of a picture.

I especially like the part where the gargoyles surrounding the mansion come to life and flap their concrete wings and confuse the heroine. I can see that in the Coming Attractions now!

Do you have representation in Hollywood? I’m sure we can come to some kind of a deal.

Roger K. Dunwhistle


July 10th, 1968

The Gilded Armitage

Suva, Viti Levu, Rewa Province, Fiji

Dear Mr. Dunwhistle,

Acknowledging your very interesting letter of 14 March, and my apologies for the delayed response. I have been working on another novel, and tend to have my blinders on during the rougher patches. I believe I saw your latest release, the one about the blonde woman impregnated by the devil. Unsettling, if not actually frightening. One hopes you are not distressed by honest criticism.

The idea of becoming involved in the Motion Picture industry gives me dyspepsia. Thus, I have no representation aside from my literary agent, Mr. Whard Dinkle of Samson, Samson, and Underbite.

Furthermore, my latest novel features no gargoyles, nor have I ever published a story featuring such architectural features. Is it possible you have me confused with someone else?

Paulette Wafflenut


July 14th, 1969

Los Angeles


No, you’re my guy, Wafflenut! Those pesky gargoyles aren’t in your opus, but imagine if they were in the movie! Chills.

I’ve already contacted Dinkle. Real cooperative guy. Offered me rights to the book and any sequels for $17.50. Mighty agreeable of you! This is going to be the biggest picture since I had Whale shoot Bride of Frankenstein! And imagine, your name’s gonna be somewhere in there. 

I always consult with the authors of my source material. With Dracula, it was a bit difficult to tune the Quija board to get messages from Stoker. At any rate, I hope I can reach you here!  Big things are happening! Great being in business with you!



Production began in earnest the next year at the famed Chipperwhiff studios. Whispers about troubles on the set have become legendary, but details about the difficulties have only come to light with this correspondence. “Correspondence” may be a bit of an exaggeration, as Dunwhistle continued to write letters to Wafflenut, but after the draconian terms of their deal, no record exists of Wafflenut’s response until after the film’s release.


February 22nd, 1970

Chipperwhiff Studios, England


You’re a creative sort of guy, into solving problems and the like, let me run this one by you:

I have no idea how to end this picture. Edgar leaves the mansion before the last reel, but I have no idea how to get him back in the house before the big finale.

In the book, you had Esther go back to save her children, but that just isn’t going to work here. Do you happen to have anything that’s a little more peppy? You know, the kind of stuff that will blow their hair back on opening weekend. I have faith in you! You’re my guy!



July 19th, 1970

Chipperwhiff Studios, England


The postal service here in jolly-old England is terrible. I’m sure you rushed along an answer to my previous question, but sadly, it is probably lost to the ages. 

Never fear! We worked it out with some creative editing. As it turns out, Edgar didn’t need a reason to return to the house! We just cut to the final reel, and there he is. Funny how these films work out sometimes. Every once in a while, you worry that the whole thing will fall apart, but then you realize that nothing really matters. People just want to see a decent looking fella conquer evil.

It’s truly a great business we are in, isn’t it, Wafflenut?



They exchanged letters once more after the film opened to hostile (and some say short-sighted) critical notices, and overwhelming box office receipts.


April 15th, 1971

Suva, Fiji

Mr. Dunwhistle,

Do you have any conception of how embarrassing all of this is to me?

Paulette Wafflenut


May 1st, 1971

Los Angeles


Don’t you understand that—with these receipts—you’re living the first line of your obituary? All I can say is that you should try to enjoy it.


P.S.: To show that there’s no hard feelings, feel free to send me any other books you might have in the pipeline. I’m always looking for the story for my next big release!

Art by Eris O’Reilly

Art by Eris O’Reilly