Flash Fiction Story 025: "What The Turning Point In The Revolutionary War Was"

Timmy Smith

Social Studies

Grade 6



What The Turning Point in The Revolutionary War Was

    There are many possible turning points in the American Revolutionary War. Some say that the victory at the Battle of Saratoga proved to the world that American soldiers could hold their own against a larger enemy. Some say that continued assistance from enemies of the British like Spain and France helped. However, many smart people would say that the landing of three flying saucers from another planet in New York City around Christmas 1777 was the most important factor. 

    Some sources indicate that there was a chance that France and other countries were thinking about openly supporting the Americans (instead of just quietly giving them money, supplies, and weapons). One can’t help but wonder how history might have changed had they done so. One also can’t help but wonder how history might be different had the three V’shrilao-class warships from the Beta Antares star cluster not made their presence known, but that’s not what this paper is about. 

    The three ships immediately exploded the British forces barricaded in New York City, made England unable to continue to wage war there, and world history would never be the same. One of the ships immediately flew to London. There, they destroyed the Palace of Westminster and forced King George III of England and his Prime Minister, Lord North to cease all hostilities with the American Colonies. Interestingly enough, Lord North survived the destruction of Parliament, as he was playing cribbage with the Earl of Sandwich at the time, and they were eating a dish that consisted of meat placed between two pieces of toasted bread. While they never came up with a name for this dish, what with all of the aliens surrounding them, if you ask me they should bring this strange invention back. It sounds delicious. 

    Anyway, just as we Americans thought we might run our own affairs for once, the aliens returned and, as you well know, put forth the three directives we in North America most follow to this day:

    1) Fidelity to your betters from Beta Antares IV is an absolute necessity.

    2) Doubt about your subservience will not be tolerated, and should never be expressed.

    3) Happiness is not a choice; it is an imperative.

    Some say that American (and World) history was very dark for many years after this time, but actually we were kept fed and sheltered while the Antarian armada proceeded to harvest the rest of the planet’s natural resources. Me and my family and my friends would not be here today if the Beta Antares people had decided to harvest their petroleum from one of the other oil-rich planets in the Orion-Cygnus Arm. It is certain that we owe them a great debt for the lives that we have.

    In conclusion, the importance of the first visits from Beta-Antares on American history cannot be overstated. They shifted history for the better by blowing things up in England. I also would like to try eating something that is two slices of bread covering up some meat. More important than the bread-meat mix that Lord Sandwich and Lord North ate (maybe we should call it a Meat North?), the three directives from our alien overlords keep us safe. And—I cannot stress this enough—the creatures that saved us from British rule are pretty good. I like them a lot.

Art by Eris O'Reilly

Art by Eris O'Reilly

Flash Fiction Story 024: "On The Double"

Bill had wished he worked at McDonald’s, or Piggly Wiggly, or some other kind of dump. At least there, he and his clientele would be on the same level. Here at the Hotel Espion, there was an ongoing class war, and he seemed to be the only one aware of it.

“Room 1437 has ordered a double portion of caviar and a Bollinger ’02 and wants it to their room on the double,” the room service manager looked around the entrance to the kitchen, and practically snarled when he realized Bill was the only waiter available.

“Well, la dee da,” Bill said. “Will his highness the Duke of York require an apéritif before retiring for the winter?” Bill could define only some of the words that he had just said, but he had the feeling he had nailed the inflection.

The manager had heard enough and put his hand out to silence Bill. This was the end. “If you don’t get this delivery off, and I mean flawlessly, you’re out on your ass!”

“And how much does being out on my ass pay?” Bill asked. He knew deep down that something was not going to come together, and it was likely not to be his fault. The champagne wouldn't smell right. The caviar wouldn’t smell at all. Something out of his control. The boss ought to have fired him right now and ensured that his precious package was delivered himself.

“Go,” the manager said. “Now.”

Up to the fourteenth floor and down the hall of the floor he went with the food in tow. If this guy wasn’t the Duke of York, he probably had a decent chance to get the job the next time it opens up. He had taken the penthouse suite. Even Bill knew that there were the swells he had to put up with on a day-to-day basis, and then there were the people that could afford the penthouse. Penthouse people were to the other hotel guests as the other hotel guests were to him. Society was funny like that.

Bill reached to swing the knocker and rapped on the door three times. He got no response for his efforts, not a sound. This was just... great. Bill had done everything he was supposed to do. He had even made sure both the meal and the bottle maintained their chill on the long journey up. Now, this guy had decided to take a shower at the appointed time, and the world was going to crash down on him.

He really wished he had worked somewhere else, or rather, wished he could work somewhere else.

He knocked once more, and was similarly thwarted. He opened his mouth to shout the name of the man who was supposed to be behind the door--something that would have been a pretty pointed breach of protocol for anywhere in the hotel, to say nothing of the front door of the fourteenth floor penthouse.

With unemployment a complete inevitability, Bill considered going out in a slightly more ambitious blaze of glory and finally finding out what caviar actually tasted like. While it smelled like fresh fish, they looked like little gumballs, so he supposed the flavor would be somewhere in the middle. He figured the champagne tasted like any degree of cold duck that he had consumed before. Rich people are suckers—

A Doric column of two human beings leapt through the door, knocking the dishes off the cart in one, fluid motion. Bill was barely able to grab the tin of caviar before it made a beluga-streaked mess on the carpet. One of the men wore a dinner jacket and seemed like the exact kind of person that would check into a penthouse and order the type of food Bill now carried. The other man was twice the size of his wrestling buddy and had a face like a disinterested toddler’s sculpture project. He wore a mechanic’s jumpsuit. They appeared to be in some sort of disagreement, or at the very least had a collective antipathy toward the now destroyed door.

Bill reached out and was able to keep the structural integrity of a dish he had never tried. In other circumstances, in other jobs, this would have gotten him some kind of commendation, or at least allowed him to keep his employment. Here, it was the final nail in the coffin.

Using whatever amount of self-preservation he had to his name, Bill wormed his way to the corner of the corridor, trying to keep his hand motionless to avoid another close call with the food. The champagne was in a bucket, and would be fine unless...

Dinner Jacket reached for the bottle and, after taking one look at the vintage on the label, decided to put it back in its chilly cocoon. Instead, he reached for a knife designed to hoist sour cream but had all the cutting power of a thumb. 

He stabbed the other man; there was no hope it would be a mortal wound. The second man yowled to the florescent bulbs above. Dinner Jacket reached for the bottle again and handed it to Bill.

“Would you terribly mind holding this for just one moment?” Dinner Jacket asked.

Bill grasped the bottle as Dinner Jacket took the handles of the cart and rammed it into the other man. Then he did it again. And again. On the fourth motion, the other man’s leg only offered a little twitch in protest. With one more push of the cart, the job was apparently done.

Dinner Jacket approached Bill with his hand outstretched. Bill handed him the Bollinger.

“A lovely vintage,” he said. “Men like us must behave in a civilized fashion, no?”

Dinner Jacket proceeded to open the bottle and poured into one of the few unbroken glasses.

“Uh,” Bill began, after digesting everything that had just happened. “Are you still going to sign for the tip?”

Art by Eris O'Reilly

Art by Eris O'Reilly

Flash Fiction Story 023: "Pen Pals, Unidentified"

In this space, I have brought you previously undiscovered letters, ranging in sources from deposed Eastern European dictators, to the famed (yet still anonymous) airplane hijacker, D.B. Cooper. Now I present a series of letters buried in a landfill which I found while searching for copies of E.T.: The Extra Terrestrial on the Atari 2600. They were sealed in an envelope, which in turn was sealed in a steamer trunk. Other contents included a few reels of 8mm film (labelled with an indistinct word beginning with the letter “Z”), long since degraded beyond use. It’s unclear just who the correspondents were, but from the available context clues, they both began some kind of government work (or possibly for a political organization) shortly after the second World War. Other details about the writers are lost to history.




Wednesday, March 12th, 1947


I hope you will forgive this indulgence. I need someone to express some thoughts to. Members of my own party are far too obsessed with their own ambition to be trusted with anything other than the slightest of pleasantries. Members of my own family are stricken with a similar affliction. Don’t even get me started on women. So that leaves me with you. 

We’re different, sure, but I have this sneaking suspicion that we are more alike than we let on. Our ages, our service during the war, even how we came about our current employment. We are cut from the same cloth. We have only the most superficial reasons to be adversaries, why shouldn’t we be friends?


P.S.: Heard Joe’s speech on Monday. Is he… okay? I mean, I hate communists as much as the next guy, but that guy needs a hobby, or something. Maybe suggest he take up sailing. It always helps to clear my mind.




Friday, March 14th, 1947


Couldn’t agree more with everything you said in your letter. Friends should always be cultivated. If a man can’t trust people, he is truly lost.

As you suggested, I brought up sailing to Joe. He didn’t say much, but I’m reasonably certain he thought I was a communist. Call it a hunch. It must be sad being so paranoid.

As far as my own hobbies, I like to play piano. You’re all too right, it’s important to have something to take one’s mind off the work at hand. I’ve also been known to bowl a frame or two.


P.S.: Is it true you’re not allowed to eat meat on Fridays? Joe won’t either, but, again, I think that has something to do with the Russians.




Tuesday, April 8th, 1947


I’m not supposed to eat meat on Fridays, and yet, strangely, until you posed your question, I never really considered why. Probably best not to scrutinize it too much.

To do this kind of work is something, but do you ever wonder if any of us will ever make it to the big time? It feels like destiny wants to push me in that direction.

It may just be the tuna fish sandwich from the mess disagreeing with me. Joe can’t get enough of the stuff.





Monday, June 2nd, 1947


Had the weirdest dream last night. I dreamt you got shot in the head and I was really, really thrilled with the development. Strange how dreams are.

Anyway, tuna day in the mess! Yum yum!


P.S.: Have you ever been skeet shooting in Dallas? Never mind. Forget I asked.

P.P.S.: I can’t honestly remember what your last question was. When you have a moment, write it again, and I will give it my most immediate attention.



The letters drop off from here. Whether there was no correspondence between the two parties over the next six years, or that those letters did not survive to be documented here, historians can only speculate. Here now are the final letters in the sequence, from the summer of 1952.



Monday, September 15th, 1952

Dick (or should I say “sir”?),

Many congratulations on the “promotion,” as it were. In our many conversations, I always knew you would rise to a high rank, but I never thought it would happen so soon.

It boggles the mind, truly. I can only hope that I can reach to the same heights you have.


P.S.: Do you know where I can get a good, loyal dog? Asking for a friend.




Tuesday, September 16th, 1952


Not sure how to take that. Why wouldn’t I have risen this quickly? With my current status, it’s probably unwise to make those sorts of insinuations. I would watch very carefully where you tread, as you yourself said, I’m much further along the path than you are now.


P.S.: If I hear another word from you about my dog, I’ll make sure all of your, I mean my, wildest dreams come true.

Art by Eris O'Reilly

Art by Eris O'Reilly

Flash Fiction Story 022: "As Seen On TV"

“If you are watchful, and you are diligent, you could be the missing link between these criminals and the justice they so richly deserve.”

Cue the spooky synthesizer music. Cue the title with the number 1-800-WATCHFUL (1-800-928-2438). Cue the narrator with one more admonition that, “If you have information as to the whereabouts of any of the suspects listed in this evening’s program, call the toll-free number listed from your touch-tone telephone. The only thing missing from justice being served, is you.”

It never meant anything until he looked up at the man ahead of him in line for the bumper cars. There was no mistaking it. It was him. Him him. Matty was sure of it. He was on the show just last night. He held up an armored car in 1968. Or maybe he killed somebody at a convention of circus clowns in 1977. He may have been a UFOlogist of some reputation.

It was a little hard for Matty to remember specifically. He may have been in the middle of an epic Tetris session on his Game Boy when the segment was airing, but he knew he saw this guy on the show.

“Have you ever been on The Solution To This Mystery Is You?”

As soon as the question escaped Matty’s lips, the man’s eyes went wide. Matty knew in that moment that he had his man, whoever he was.

His mother inhaled so sharply that she negatively impacted their air pressure around them. “Matty!” she turned to the man. “You have to forgive him. When these boys aren’t jumping plumbers and hedgehogs, they’re glued to the damned TV.”

Matty scoffed and became indignant. “But mom!”

“Matty!” she insisted, the order implicit. She turned back to the man from Mystery. “Back when we were kids, we would get smacked”

The man looked down to Matty and winked. “It was a simpler time,” he replied to Matty’s mother, and then followed the ride attendant’s direction to take the blue car closest to the ride’s exit.

Matty eyed the man the whole way and took extra care to note the brief moment where he appeared to eye making a run for the exit, before opting instead to take a car as directed. Matty figured that he didn’t want to make a scene, but opted not to mention that assessment to his mother. She wasn’t going to be of much help here, it appeared.

As the bumper car session began, a chase between Matty and his prey ensued. The man from the TV tried to keep his distance, but this was not Matty’s first time behind the wheel. He cornered the TV man and bumped him relentlessly. Eventually the attendant had to intercede, and Matty could tell from the look on his mother’s face that he needed to find some other kind of tactic if he was ever going to fulfill the promise of his favorite TV show.

No ideas came before the ride ended. The man from the TV leapt out of his car and walked as calmly as he could toward the fair entrance. There would be no second chances; Matty’s career as a fighter of crime and defender of justice had ended just as quickly as it began. What’s more, his mom was probably not going to want to hear anything more about it.

Three days later, local news was saturated with the story of police capturing of Robert Smith, ending a twenty year flight from justice after he had murdered a convenience store clerk in 1974. He had been captured not far from the site of the state fair. 

For years to follow, Matty used this incident as a way to cut through any acute reaction of skepticism from his mother. By his own estimation, it allowed him to get away with up to 35 percent more adolescent shenanigans during the first few years of the 21st century than he might have otherwise. Still, he would have liked to catch the asshole himself. If they had been waiting in line for ferris wheel, Matty might have been the one to do it. Damned bumper cars.

Art by Eris O'Reilly

Art by Eris O'Reilly

Flash Fiction "Story" 021: "More On This Story As It Develops"

Confession: I kind of like writing the stories that appear in this blog. But I think I’m coming to the realization that I’m most at home writing scripts. I think various people who read my work would agree, but that’s either a discussion for another time, or a digression during a therapy session that might take up the entire session.

But I digress.

In an effort to keep things lively and different here on this space, I offer a peak back to my older work. As a fresh-faced teenage, my friends and I forged a film out of miniDV tapes, scotch tape, and latex gloves. You can read more about the experience of making the movie (here = http://www.partyapocalypse.com/blog-blog-bloggy-blog/failure-and-rgm-at-15) and actually see the film itself (here = http://www.partyapocalypse.com/really-good-man/). A few years back, Bill Fisher and I explored the idea of sequels in comic book form. Some of that material is (here = https://rgmlives.tumblr.com), but one of the unproduced scripts appeared to be under 1000 words, and so I thought it would be a welcome addition here. As I looked over the script I wrote in 2013, it became clear that whatever worked about the idea rested in the visuals. Therefore, I decided to break with format and present the script in its entirety.

So, 18 years after I scribbled down the ideas for Really Good Man, and 16 years after people finally got to take a look at him, I submit one more chapter in his story, “More On This Story As It Develops.”





LEGEND: Night 1


A TV REPORTER and her NEWS CREW are working in an area of massive destruction.



The city of Tulsa has seen its share of 

unusual phenomena.  The strange storm 

patterns above the State University

Stadium, the bizarre anonymous editing

marks on signs all throughout the city,

but nothing is quite as bizarre as the

scene here in an Industrial Park near 

the corner of Harryhausen and Kurosawa.


Destruction is all that is left here, 

and while no one was hurt, this reporter

is only left with questions.


The only clue to what happened is this.


She holds up a tattered, scorched dishwashing glove.




Are housewives on the rampage in T-town?

More as this story develops.






LEGEND: Night 2

The reporter and her crew are reporting near a large building.  There is a large fifty-foot hole in the side of the building.



More unexplained destruction as another

area of town is left in ruin. While I 

am pleased to report that no one was 

hurt, this time there were some 

witnesses to the event.


The Reporter moves towards a VAGRANT sitting by the street.




And just what did you see here tonight?



He was big, as big as that there hole

in that there wall.  Came crashing 

through like some kind of wild dog.


And that’s when I saw him.  He moved

like lightning, except he was bright

green.  His eyes were dark like coal

and his hands glowed yellow like the 



I wouldn’t be speaking to you here 

today if it wasn’t for him.


The Reporter turns back to the camera.



Based on this citizen’s description,

the figure associated with these

mysterious disturbances looks some-

thing like this.


INSERT: A sketch of a large, lumbering figure.  The Mr. Hyde to Really Good Man’s Dr. Jekyll.  The dishwashing gloves are very much the same.




Is our town terrorized by a beast in 

dish-washing gloves?  More on this 

story as it develops.






LEGEND: Night 3

The scene is tranquil, the buildings are unharmed.  The reporter continues her coverage.



Sadly, our investigation has only 

created more questions. 


There are wild reports of a massive, 

explosive agent of destruction ripping 

through the city.


There are also equally strange reports—

mainly from perplexed drive-thru 

attendants—of a lightning fast white 

vehicle, with majestic wings attached.


And still other reports of a lone 

green-clad figure ensuring all innocent 

people are out of harm’s way before 

the destruction occurs.


We may never have the answers.  But

if our city does have some mysterious 

protector, this reporter would like 

to thank him.  More on th-


Off in the distance, we hear a loud scream.  Then, REALLY GOOD MAN runs up, out of breath, to where the news crew is working.



Sir, sir!  Channel 12 news!  Who are 

you? Are you here to protect us?  



Really Good Man looks perplexed that news crew would be here.





Before the reporter asks any more questions, Really Good Man is on the run again.  Just behind them, a GIANT MONSTER is wrecking everything in its path.  The reporters and Really Good Man flee.



Art by Eris O'Reilly

Art by Eris O'Reilly

Flash Fiction Story 020: "Our Helpful Neighbors"

The pods fell in the dead of night. The dogs found them fascinating, but the neighbors and I had enough sense to stay away. We weren’t frightened by them, per se. Most of us were reminded of chunks of Kryptonite when we looked at them from a distance.

Then, slowly, people began to change. When people change, the ones who do not tend to panic. They can’t help it. If change happens against one’s will, there’s a fear nothing will be left of the original.

The first to change were the Smiths: Bill, Mitzy, Bill Junior, and Mitzy Junior. The day after the glowing rocks first appeared, they explored the rock in their backyard. They then quickly returned to their house and did not re-emerge for three days. People began to wonder if they could survive for that long. Surely they had enough groceries, but no one was about to go up to their door and ask if anything was wrong.

On the third evening after the rocks fell, the Smiths re-emerged. As the June sun went down, all four of the Smith clan went to each and every door on the cul-de-sac and asked the neighbors—some of whom they were meeting for the first time—if they needed any help. Did they need their lawn mowed? The gutters cleaned? A run to the grocery store? Most were taken aback by the presumption and tried to politely end the conversation. Even old man Samson—who could have used a little help stocking his pantry—begged off. As for me, I hadn’t answered the door in over twenty years, and I wasn’t about to start then.

The Smiths could apparently still take a hint, and returned to their home. After their cloying attempts at assistance, the glowing rocks of a few days earlier quickly became the least interesting event over the last few days.

Any hopes that the Smiths would snap out of their behavior were quashed on the fourth day—a particularly sweltering parboil under the new summer sun—when they came out and offered bottles of water to everyone working in their yard. We were a good, upstanding neighborhood—as far as good, upstanding neighborhoods go—and you could guarantee that everyone was working diligently on their shrubs. It was another chance for them to interact with everyone in the cul-de-sac.

I wasn’t fond of what was happening. I liked it even less when others started feeling like the Smiths. Each family—and Mr. Samson—suddenly disappeared into their houses for three days apiece, and emerged with nothing but helpfulness on their mind. On the sixth day—a Saturday—my doorbell rang. While I refused to answer, I did peek through my blinds and saw every last man, woman, and child in the neighborhood milling about my yard. Each of them wore a smile that threatened to stretch their faces to the breaking point.

This was unacceptable. I opened the door and greeted them with my Smith and Wesson 29. They seemed unbothered by the greeting. “How can we help you?” they asked in unison.

Seeing that they had made an error, Mr. Smith—the first to be stricken by the same behavior—grinned a little wider as everyone else’s faces went slack. “How can we—I mean, I—help you?” he asked.

I shut the door, for all the good it would do me. Something had to be done about them. Something had to be done about the rocks that had created them. I was an American, by God, and maybe the only American left on my block. So it fell to me.

I pulled a smallish amount of C4 out of my closet and prepared it for the task at hand. Don’t ask me where I got it and why I might have needed it before the glowing rocks came; you don’t have a warrant.

When I exited to the backyard and my own glowing green rock, the neighbors were waiting for me. They did not try to stop me, only offering their obsequious, understanding grins in response. I figured they had to fear me, but had some sort of plan to respond to me. I had to work quickly.

I set the explosives, but before I could ignite the fuse, the green light found me and made me understand my error. The light turned red and then purple, and then I knew where I had gone wrong. The rock reached into my soul and let me know there was nothing to fear. Quite to the contrary, they represented the next stage of evolution. The rocks were not here to force us into this new state of being, but to ease us into it, like slipping into a warm bath.

Now I know what I needed to do. I will join my brothers and sisters, let go of my hatred, and join the new tomorrow with enthusiasm.

Only one question remains:

Can I help you with anything? Don’t answer right away; we’ll come find you either way.

Art by Eris O'Reilly

Art by Eris O'Reilly

Flash Fiction Story 019: "Globophilia"

The exam room had cleared. The doctor had finished talking, finally. All he could hear was the faint hiss of the balloons attached to my body continuing to fill with helium.

“There is no cure,” the doctor repeated. “You are turning into a balloon. Like I said, it’s rare.”

“But what will happen to me?” the air conditioning was causing one of the early protrusions on his body to flap slightly against the human skin that surrounded it.

“As your skin continues to… ah…” the doctor seemed to be searching for the right verb but coming up as short as he did with treatment plans. “Change, for lack of a better term, you’ll see more of these bright colors appear. As your marrow slowly replaces your red blood cells with helium gas over the next four to six weeks, you’ll become more buoyant.”

“But how is that even possible?” he asked. 

The doctor offered nothing more than a shake of the head. “That’s not really important, is it? Your buoyancy will allow you to fly. It’s entirely possible that you might be the next step in human evolution.”

“But if I keep floating…” He could already feel himself getting lighter. 

“Well,” the doctor said. “Let’s not worry about that right now. There will always be time for that later.”

With no answers beyond a pronounced feeling of undefined dread after his visit to the doctor’s office, he returned to that true font of human wisdom, Google. The internet, with its dearth of pretension to bedside manner, told him everything he needed to know. As balloons rise through the atmosphere, they expand. He would grow large. If he were turning into an industrial balloon, like the ones they use for tracking weather patterns, his flexible skin would just continue to expand, practically without limit. But he knew—he was at least much that in tune with what was happening to him—his flesh wasn’t that strong. He belonged at a children’s party or falling from the ceiling at a political convention. The higher he went the more likely he was to—


Firmly planting himself in the sweet, warm embrace of denial, he initially conducted his life as if nothing had changed. With the judicious use of some concealer, he was able to turn his condition from unrelentingly freakish to something the more polite people in society would make a concerted effort not to stare.

However, after a week of pretending nothing was wrong, he could no longer hide the fact that his insides were lighter than air. While walking to work one morning, he lifted off from the ground and before he could grab onto a light pole or a parking meter, a tree snagged him in the midst of its branches. The fire department untangled him. Even with adding more ball bearings into his pants pockets, continuing work at the fake beard factory would prove impractical.

Floating to what he could only imagine was his doom, he realized that he couldn’t live for whatever time he had remaining on the meager savings he had left. Amazingly, the one group that he thought would gawk, stare, and point—children—were more entranced by his plight than anything else. The opportunity created itself, apparently. In the years to come, children all over the area would remember “THE AMAZING BALLOON MAN™” invading their birthday parties like a half-remembered dream. If it wasn’t some kind of death throe, this new career might have given him a new lease on life.

He had to cut those days of merry entertainment short, as well. The thought of his final children’s party performance ending with him bumping into the stratosphere and an explosion of carnage proved to be too sad for him to bear. Isolation would be the order of his final day. No one needed to see anyone end the way he was destined to.

As he finally drifted away, he came to a realization. He loved balloons. He loved the joy that they brought people. He couldn’t imagine his life before, when they terrified him. He wasn’t even sure why he had been afraid in the first place. Maybe that’s all a second lease on life really is, he wondered, no matter how short it might last. In a world where he could become the thing he feared the most in the world without warning, there really wasn’t that much left to fear in the world. And besides, the sky was so pretty, he was beginning feel like he could stretch far enough to envelop the whole thing.

Art by Eris O'Reilly

Art by Eris O'Reilly

Flash Fiction Story 018: "Globophobia"

He knew where his fear came from, but awareness didn’t help. He didn’t have a latex allergy of his own; Doctor Preston had tried to make that abundantly clear. No matter what had happened at Jimmy Sippowitz’s 7th birthday party, it was highly unlikely that such an unfortunate, grisly death could be caused by balloons again.

But that didn’t mean they couldn’t

His only comfort was knowing that his deep, intractable agony at the very thought of balloons left him with a phobia of something that one could easily avoid in their day-to-day life. Afraid of the dark? Eventually the night will come. Afraid of bugs? Eventually, you would have to go outside. With balloons, he could manage. He never went to birthday parties, ever. He also stayed in during New Year’s Eve, just in case. The circus and the fair were out, but who wanted to deal with lines anyway? His first and only “must-have” with his realtor was “It must be more than 50 miles away from the nearest party supply store.” It was a strange request, but he wasn’t about to explain himself any further.

Which only deepened the mystery of what happened the morning he looked in the bathroom mirror but wished he never had. 

He yelped when he first saw it, and tried to run back into the bedroom, but he couldn’t. It followed him. He returned to the mirror lightly. When the object continued to follow him, his first, uncontrollable instinct was to swat at it. He stopped nearly an instant later when he realized such an ill-advised action might cause the thing to pop.

But there it was, the bulbous latex of an inflated balloon. It dangled from his shoulder blade, his skin gradually giving way to the inflated red mass. It would be so easy just to pluck the offending protrusion…

Except then it might pop.

Despite a panic attack creeping up on him like an oncoming storm, he changed tacks and got dressed. He took extra care to make sure the offending inflation fit under his shirt, and wasn’t under too much pressure.

The thing would go away on its own. It would have to! Even if it never burst forth—what in God’s name was keeping it inflated, he wondered—the thing would eventually lose interest and whither away.

That thought kept him going through a pointedly terrifying, and not a little bit uncomfortable work day. When he woke up the next day, he had nearly forgotten about the strange balloon that appeared on his person. But when he looked in the mirror, there were two of them. The red one remained. However, a green one had appeared just above his left pectoral.

This was enough to get him to go to the doctor. He didn’t fear the doctor’s office, per se, but it did make him uncomfortable. Visiting the doctor’s office because he had balloons growing out of him would introduce enough anxiety to keep him from leaving the house for weeks. Now it was nothing more than a an unrelenting, numbing state of being.

“So…” the doctor said when he came into the examining room. He hadn’t yet looked up from his clipboard. “You have a couple of balloons stuck… where, now?”

He shook his head and removed his shirt; the red and green globes bounced under the gentle breeze of the air conditioner. It had taken three days for him to get in to see the doctor, and they were now joined by a blue balloon protruding from his rib cage on the right side, and a yellow one completely obscuring his left armpit.

With no answer, the doctor finally looked up from his forms. “Oh,” the doctor said. “Oh!” the doctor moaned. “Oh?” the doctor finally queried, and then exited the examination room with no further information. All in all, this was not the least helpful examination he had ever received from his general practitioner.

The doctor return after a few minutes, now holding a faux-leather bound book in place of the previous clipboard. “Chronic vestigial flexilis with periodic heliastic halitus. I remember hearing about it in medical school, but golly, I never thought I’d see a case first hand…”

With no further discussion, the doctor yelled out into the hallway. “You guys have to come see this! We’ve got an actual case of CVF here!”

The entire medical staff of the clinic—the janitor came, too, claiming, “I’m always into seeing some weird shit”—came to gawk at the balloons. 

“When was the last time something like this was diagnosed?” asked one of the interns. 

“Not since the Dark Ages, I think,” the receptionist theorized.

“Oh, yeah… What happened to that guy…?”

“What do you think happened to him?” the receptionist replied.

While they stared, he noticed the beginnings of a purple addition to his array of festive buoys.

“What does that mean?” he asked.

“What’s that?” the doctor asked.

“What does…?”

“…chronic vestigial flexilis with periodic—“

“Yes. What does it mean?” he repeated. The roaring flame of terror was starting to give way to a dull, sleepy resignation. The janitor wasn’t helping matters.

“It means, my friend, you are turning into a balloon.”


“Yes, yes. I know. You’re afraid of balloons.” Someone in the impromptu operating theater chuckled. He first thought it was the janitor, but it was the kind of thing only someone who spent time in a medical school would find funny. The doctor continued, “but there’s certainly no better way to fight a phobia than to face it head on… And I think it’s safe to say that’s just what you’re doing.”

“But what’s going to happen to me?”

“Oh, that’s quite simple,” the doctor answered. “You’re going to become a balloon.”

“And then?”

The doctor looked around to his colleagues—and the janitor—and then offered him a wan smile. 

“Maybe we should talk about that in private.”



Art by Eris O'Reilly

Art by Eris O'Reilly

Flash Fiction Story 017: "Hot Dog"

Some of the main ingredients in hot dogs include types of meat trimmings, appetizingly named meat slurry, and (seriously) pink slime. Pretty disgusting, right?

But, God, did I want one. I decided it was mainly the mustard I craved, and that human society would look down on me if I just ate the yellow elixir directly from the bottle.

Only, it was 3 AM. That wouldn’t be a problem if I lived in a town with some degree of civilization, like Chicago or New York, or Tallahassee. They line the streets with pink slime in towns like those. But I live in a less-than-civilized place, so I had to come up with something else. I didn’t have any hot dogs in the house, so the brief fantasy of a hot dog from a gas station flitted through my mind, but I also didn’t want to die, right?

The craving would not subside, though, so… The gastrointestinal system can bounce back pretty quickly from blunt force trauma, right? Doesn’t matter at this point; I still found myself in the car headed for the nearest gas station. I’m only human, right? As human as someone who needs low-grade sausage before sunrise, but human nonetheless. 

The bell above the door of the EZMART announced my arrival. If there was a smell that was the perfect cross-section between industrial cleaner and mildew that didn’t know how to quit, it made up the majority of the air around me. I marched up to the grilling rollers and took in the sight of my long-sought reward. Some were fully cooked, and even a few bubbled with grease indicating they were on the verge of bursting through their cases.

Pretty tasty, right? 

The two that had been rotating the longest, those were the ones I needed. The more leathery, the better, right? I reached for the nearby tongs, only to be interrupted by a hand, clad in black leather.

“You know they put something called pink slime in those things?”

I turned away from my snack and beheld my interruption. It wasn’t until later that I made the comparison between his fingers and hot dogs that had spent too much time on the roller, but the similarities were undeniable. The figure was dressed entirely in blackened hot dog skins—I was pretty hungry, right?—right up to a wide-brimmed hat.

“Right… Yeah, but sometimes, you just gotta have what you want.” Wanting to move on with my appetite and my life, I turned away from the figure and back to my selection. Pretty weird what you’ll see at the EZMART, right?

The figure placed a hand on my shoulder. With a strength I wasn’t expecting, they turned me around and put a small circular object that looked like a roll of film. “I’ve already been made. Make sure Station Delta disposes of this in the prescribed manner.”

Before I could ask about the identity of the figure, their object, or more details about Station Delta (the capital letters feel right, right?), the figure disappeared out the front door. Ding! The entire time, the clerk behind the counter continued to contemplate a 4 inch black and white TV frying the voyages of the starship Enterprise into his brain. He never looked up once. I didn’t blame him; it was a pretty good episode.

Hot dogs in tow, I left the store and made the walk back to my car. With enough of a balancing act to perhaps qualify me for a starring routine with Ringling Bros., I ventured to unlock my car and open the door, all the while ensuring I didn’t lose the mustardy joy I had procured. When it became clear that no human could do all these things at once, I placed my snack on the hood of my car. The odds of me remembering to grab them before I drove off were slim.

They made quick work of ambushing me; quicker than I had expected any human to ever move. This wasn’t the same figure from before. This newcomer wore a tuxedo that looked like it had been put in an oven instead of the dryer. Shards of black fabric dangled from his frame, and yet the bow tie remained perfectly in place. If I live to be 100, I’ll still never understand how those things work.

“Who are you working for?” he asked. Before I could answer—and to be fair to him, my answer would have been a resounding “huh?”—he swept me off my feet, Daniel Caruso style.

My heart skipped a beat as I hit the floor. The attack didn’t hurt—or at least, it wouldn’t hurt until morning—but instead I was more worried about my damned hot dogs.

The figure in the destroyed tuxedo loomed over me. “Where is Agent 11?! Where is the microfiche?”

The true pain of my fall clarified into sharp relief as I realized that while I could still—minimally—breathe, I was not so much with the talking. The figure frisked me on the ground and retrieved the roll of film. Still not satisfied with my rasping lack of speech, he looked at me once more. “How did you break our code exchange?”

Regaining just the slighted bit of speech I wheezed, “I just like hot dogs.”

With the sounds of sirens echoing through the night, the tuxedo man ran back out into the night. I returned home, and on the way I heard a radio report about a nationwide hunt for a rogue CIA agent being hunted by the authorities. That probably had nothing to do with me, right? I pushed the thought out of my head as I took a bite of my damned hot dog. You’d think it would be kind of disappointing after all that, right? You’d be wrong.

Art by Eris O'Reilly

Art by Eris O'Reilly

Flash Fiction Story 016: "With Love, Dan"

Over 45 years after the daring hijacking of Northwest Orient Flight 305, the identity of the mysterious D.B. Cooper, his whereabouts, and the fate of the $200,000 with which he absconded all remain a mystery. Most maintain that without a safe haven in short distance of where he parachuted, “Cooper” would have surely perished. 

Intermittent physical evidence of Cooper’s escape from the authorities surfaced, most tending to support the theory that he did not survive the heist. The FBI officially suspended the investigation in 2016, owing to a need to commit resources to other, more pertinent investigative matters.

In 2017, the following correspondence was purchased at a flea market in the town of Zigzag, Oregon. An otherwise unsuspecting collector of antiques found the letters in the shelf of a Kas-style armoire. Both the purchaser and dealer claimed to have no other knowledge of the Cooper case, and indeed were only children when it occurred. While some—including retired members of the FBI task force charged with investigating the case—express mild skepticism at the authenticity of the letters, the possibility of the first peeks into Cooper’s fate and thoughts after the hijacking have ignited the imagination of students of the case. It paints the stories of a thrill-seeking trickster eventually confronted with the immutability of his greatest scam. Cooper becomes less a mystery, and more of a sad figure with these words

It also adds new layers of mysteries to the story. Who was “Mitchell”? Where did he live, and did he own the armoire? Why couldn’t Cooper have gone home? And, furthermore, how could someone walk around with a tattoo like that and not attract attention to himself?

Here, published for the first time are the “Dan letters”:




November 26th, 1971


Genera Delivery

Portland, OR


Dear Mitchell*,


Well! It looks like I owe you fifty bucks. Someone could ask for two-hundred thousand dollars and jump out of a plane with no problems. You said, “All you need is a couple of clay rods, some wiring, a battery, and put them all in a suitcase.” And I laughed in your face.

Boy is my face red! But I’ve always believed a big man admits when he is wrong. I was sure somebody would have stopped me, and then you would owe me the fifty… and bail money, probably. I mean, shouldn’t somebody have tried to stop me?

I’d say that I’ll have no trouble paying you back, but then if I squared accounts with you out of the money I’ve just “found,” then I might win the bet after all! Ha. Ha. Ha. Seriously, though. I don’t think we can spend any of this money. Every bill has a serial number on it. How could we not have thought of that?

This is all to say I am alive and well, and yes, I’m the man you’re seeing on the news. I’ll reach out again when I can to try and bring this little adventure of ours to an end.


With Love,



December 4th, 1971


General Delivery

Portland , OR


Dear Mitchell,


I’m worried. I think they’re taking this a little more seriously than you are I might have bargained. Pictures of the way I appeared over Thanksgiving are everywhere. Growing a beard didn’t help. Putting my glasses back on—don’t call them “coke bottles” again, I swear, Mitchell—didn’t help. Getting that tattoo** of “Ask me about Amway” across my forehead didn’t help.

They are still looking for me, and every time someone looks me in the eye, I’m almost certain they are thinking, There he is! There’s the man who jumped from the plane!

Please send word back via the delivery method above. Use my real name. Tell me there’s a way I can come home. I think we may have gone too far with this one. Reminds me of the time we thought it would be funny if we demagnetized Earhart’s compass*** and…

I’ve probably said too much. I’ll write when I can.


With Love,



(This letter appeared encrypted with a cryptogram-style cypher, unless Cooper meant to refer to  “slippery rhino brassieres.” If the letters were not encoded, then it’s entirely possible that these are not Cooper letters, and instead very niche erotic literature. For clarity’s sake, the decryption appears here.)


January 2nd, 1972


General Delivery

Portland, OR


Dear Mitchell,


This won’t work anymore. I sense they are paying more attention to the Post Office here. I can’t even be sure that you’ve received all of my previous letters****. This will have to be my last letter. While this has all gotten too big, the thought of the big house is just a bit too much to bear. If you can get to me, do. It would be the great miracle of my life if we could find a way to move past this, although I’ve started to give up that hope a little bit with each passing day.

I’ll never fly again. That much is certain.

Maybe we should have just stuck with playing canasta? Sometimes I feel like I’m just writing into the void.


Please write back,




These were the only letters recovered, only increasing speculation about additional correspondence. Anyone who possess additional examples of writings from “Dan” are encouraged to contact the FBI at (855) 835-5324.
















* Assuming that the letters are authentic, most investigators believe that “Mitchell” is a pseudonym for Cooper’s family contact. No crosschecks of available records in either Oregon or California have found families with both a Mitchell and a Daniel of the appropriate age.

** Research into the corresponding tattoo failed to yield any conclusive results. It may be the beginnings of a code (see the third letter).

*** It is also speculated that this reference to “Earhart’s Compass” is a code, but it has opened up interesting avenues of speculation into the disappearance of certain other figures.

**** This reference leads some to believe there either were or are more letters.

Art by Eris O'Reilly

Art by Eris O'Reilly

Flash Fiction Story 015: "The Early Adopter"

TOAD SUCK, ARKANSAS (Toad Suck Gazette Daily) — A local resident—we’ll call him “Jimmy,” —was born in year 2001, and by his 30th birthday he figured it was time to get his first cell phone. The intrepid innovators at Consolidated Telephonics™ had come out with the model that would finally pique his interest.

Most people his age got their own devices before they turned 10, but Jimmy refused. By the time cell phones came complete with internet access, sophisticated motion picture cameras, and a never-ending fight between multi-colored birds and green pigs, money was no longer an object for Jimmy—but every time an opportunity to get a phone came up, he flatly refused. 

They looked so silly! It didn’t matter that—as the human race incrementally ceased looking up for longer than five seconds in favor of their portable screens—Jimmy was the one who started looking silly when he didn’t have such a machine. He continued to stick to his guns. If he was ever in an emergency, he could always borrow someone else’s phone. He didn’t need to take the plunge.

Then, the latest line came out and everything changed. For a low, low price that could be distributed across the term of the provider’s contract, Consolidated Telephonics would inject a small, bluetooth-enabled microprocessor through the nasal cavity and gently embed it deeply into the cerebral cortex. From there, the greatest operating system ever constructed does the rest. Want to send an email? One need only wish it to be so. Want to post to Instagram? Blink, and you take a photo that will become the envy of your followers. Selfies have become a little harder, but Consolidated Telephonics is rumored to already be hard at work on a Mark 2 model that somehow gets around this unexpected design flaw.

There was one other, tiny problem.

The Cerebral-Chemical Interface System™ latched into some unfathomable part of Jimmy’s brain and tapped directly into his unconscious thinking. When he idly—and only for an instant—eyed a woman he passed on the street, his phone immediately sent a Facebook friend invite to the completely bewildered stranger. Such an exchange would be benign enough, if it didn’t come complete with the share of a candid photo of the woman walking down the sidewalk only moments before.

Always a stickler for his physical fitness, Jimmy’s occasional cravings for junk food yielded progressively more difficult results. While he would never indulge in the Double Decker Cheese Atrocity Pizza from McPizza Hut, the moment his mind wandered to the possibility of a world where he would eat such a calamity, an order was placed with the establishment. Within one week, Jimmy had unwittingly ordered over 713 separate pizzas. Tragically, at press time “the Hut” does not offer refunds for online orders. Inexplicably, over 40 of his orders were sent to an address that read simply: MY HOUSE AS A KID, BUT IT WAS… LIKE, LARGER? ALSO THERE WERE SHARKS THERE.

REM sleep produced further problems for Jimmy. Every night when Jimmy would dream—even if he didn’t remember the dream—it would become an early morning post on the near-abandoned retro social networking platform, Twitter. Here now are just a few examples from his first few days with the device: 


~@jimmytheluddite - Wednesday, October 29th, 2031 1:31AM


~@jimmytheluddite - Friday, October 31st, 2031 2:07AM


~@jimmytheluddite - Sunday, November 2nd, 2031 12:42AM

Life has indeed changed for Jimmy, the man who would not be seen with a cell phone. He has desperately tried to delete his Facebook account, only to find it reactivated by dawn, in accords with his deepest unspoken wishes. He’s gained 70 pounds from the pizza consumption, although his McPizza Rewards Points are impressive. It is not all bad news, however. He is planning on compiling his involuntary tweets and releasing them as a book on the Kindle Store in early 2032.

Art by Eris O'Reilly

Art by Eris O'Reilly

Flash Fiction Story 014: "Break a Leg"

On April 14, 1865 at Ford’s Theater, the unthinkable happened. President Abraham Lincoln—riding high from the recent surrender of the Confederacy—was touted to take in a performance of Tom Taylor’s tried and true hit, Our American Cousin.

And he showed up late. 

The actors had been performing for half an hour when President Lincoln, First Lady Mary Todd Lincoln, Major Henry Rathbone, and Ms. Clara Harris arrived in the President’s Box. Following protocol, all performance stopped, and the orchestra offered a rousing chorus of Hail to the Chief.


Trained actors had been steeped in a trade that made “the show must go on” an inviolable rally cry. The mere idea that a latecomer would stop the proceedings cold enraged Harry Hawk. Hawk played Asa Trenchard—the lead, the lead, by God!—and imagined that this would be the peak of his career. He was merely a character actor, and had to spend the majority of his working life toiling in the shadow of Miss Laura Keene, the star of their company. 

He actually supposed that Lincoln was a bit of a great man; he merely couldn’t abide rudeness in his audience. Especially when his one true moment of glory was at hand.

Others hated the President, and hated him blissfully. Why, just a few weeks ago a fellow actor had dinner with Hawk and railed for hours about States’ Rights, the superiority of the white man, and the dreadfulness of the Union. Although the other actor in question could make the agony of Shakespeare as real for the audience as the anguish in their own lives, Hawk’s dinner guest was an absolute bore when the applause died down. Abraham Lincoln was lucky that John Wilkes Booth was not in the cast of this production. The President would surely be in for an earful then.

The performance proceeded without a hitch after Lincoln’s interruption. Act Three reached its low-comic crescendo with Hawk’s Asa bellowing to the indefatigable Mrs. Mountchessington—as played by Mrs. Helen Muzzy—a line that was the absolute show stopper of the piece.

“Don’t know the manners of good society, eh? Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal…” Hawk offered the slightest of pauses before earning his player’s salary with the words, “you sockdologizing old man-trap!”

Laughter, and then everything changed. What was—not more than a half hour previously—thought unthinkable became relegated to mere annoyance.

A crack echoed through the playhouse. Outside of a war—and more than a few people in attendance had come fresh from one, including Major Rathbone—people never seem to register gunfire as what it is in the seconds after it occurs. The continued laughter—to think, getting to use the word “sockdologizing” in a public forum!—obscured the carnage for a few more seconds. 

Hawk proceeded with the rest of his line, even though he knew that the laughter would drown out the next few words. “Well, now, when I think what I’ve thrown away in hard cash today I’m apt to call myself some awful hard names…”

Now the commotion could not be ignored. There was shouting and wailing, and not an ounce of mirth. This dignified audience had some misconceived notion that both they and the Man from Springfield had come to see some sort of burlesque. 

Hawk then heard a deep sustained tearing from out in the crowd. The people were revolting. Our American Cousin was hardly Euripides, but it was hardy worth a rebellion! 

Hawk slinked back from the full force of the limelight, when a loud crash upstaged him, shocking him out of what little tenuous hold he still had on his character. A figure fell to the stage along with the sound, having leapt from the Presidential box. 

Was this figure Lincoln? Where did this guy get off?

Through the shocked gasps of the crowd, Hawk tried to makes sense of what was going on, but to no avail. Only after the shape took the spot that was meant for Hawk did the actor think that it bore a striking resemblance to the aforementioned Booth. Hawk nearly asked him what he was doing here, but he had enough decorum not to upstage another actor… even if that other actor had upstaged him in the first place.

The possible Booth raised his hand above his head, grasping a gleaming dagger reflecting the stage lights. “Siiiiiiiiic Semper Tyeranooooooooos!” he shouted and immediately hobbled his way back stage. He must have injured himself on the leap from his audience with Lincoln. Before disappearing into the alleyway behind Ford’s, Booth and Hawk exchanged the briefest of glances, almost as if Booth were trying his best to apologize for interrupting the performance. He also stabbed the orchestra leader before fleeing on horseback. It would appear there would be no more rounds of Hail to the Chief played, although Hawk supposed the Orchestra could try again on their own if need be.

The real news spread quickly from there. Helpful yet helpless people took the unmoving President to die across the street at the Petersen House.

After an hour, Harry Hawk remained frozen in the middle of his performance, and stuck in a situation that his training could not have prepared him for, and yet his training would not be denied.

Hawk whispered at first. His hesitance only being that Hawk was playing to an empty house. He gathered strength as he continued. “W-well! As I was saying earlier, you sockdologizing old man trap! When I think what I’ve thrown away…” And he proceeded to perform the rest of the play’s parts all the way through to the final curtain. The remaining cast had moved as close to the dying Lincoln as etiquette would allow. He was dead-set—too soon? he wondered—on finishing the show. It had to go on.

Art by Eris O'Reilly

Art by Eris O'Reilly

Flash Fiction Story 013: "50 Seconds to Somewhere North of Cambodia"

Jörg Groß had the upper hand, and the day would be his. His Luger still held four rounds, whereas Agent Clarke had completely exhausted his Beretta 418. The fool clicked the trigger uselessly half a dozen times just to confirm the assessment.

One final shot, and the meddlesome Clarke would be no more, Groß would take control of the Antonov An-124 Ruslan, and change course for Cambodia. Plentiful beaches, no extradition treaties, and affordable airplane hangar rentals. It was all Groß could ever ask for. 

Well, if Groß could have had everything he wanted, then the nerve toxin he had developed to necrotize England’s collective crops, and the Prime Minister would have handed over control of the United Kingdom… But Cambodia was sufficient consolation prize.

He cocked his Luger and tried to dwell on the details of the moment. He wished every sense could contribute to the tableau, but with the wind rushing out of the rear hatch of the plane, he could only feel it.

“You should be commended, Agent Clarke. My larger plan has not reached full fruition, but it does appear we have reached the end of our little game,” Groß shouted before settling into a smile.

Clarke matched his grin, inexplicably souring the victory. “I will certainly miss this gun…” He sounded wistful through his own shout. Maybe he had come to accept the fate at the end of Groß’ Luger.

“Wh—?” Groß’ question failed to fully leave his mouth before Clarke threw his empty weapon at him. The resulting surprise forced Groß to lose his footing, and from there all was sky.

He reached around for some new foot or hand hold. Clarke couldn’t have regained the upper hand! The day was his!

Damn that Clarke! Groß shouted wordless curses into the heavens that had swallowed him, flailing against the wind that cared little for his predicament. Aside from clouds, he could not even strike terribly with his anger, it was just destined to become a permanent part of the sky along with the moon, the sun and Agent Thad Clarke of MI6.

Groß rallied suddenly, casting aside thoughts of fury and Clarke in favor of a solution. All was not lost! When he had initially released the rear hatch in his fight with Clarke, a plethora of equipment preceded his exit. He needed only to find a parachute and latch on. Assuming the plane was cruising at the standard 40,000 feet, and a standard rate of acceleration towards the ground, he had about 50 seconds before hitting the ground. 

It was possible! He would give every ounce of his fortune for that possibility. Groß even made a half-formed promise to a deity he had detested when he even bothered to believe in him, but it became clear that any parachute would be to far away to do him any good.

He tried to remember the last time he had called his mother. It had been too long. He wondered if she would ever hear of his fate. She had long since written him off as a ne’er-do-well ages ago. She probably already thought he was dead. At this point, he figured he would have been better off dead back then as well. He wondered when the best time would have been to die. Maybe when he was ten, and had fallen off the roof of their farmhouse in Mecklenburg-Vorpommern while trying to spot Father Christmas. Mother would have been sad then. It would have been nice to have mourners.

He wondered how long he had been falling. He supposed about 45 seconds. He might have spent those last few minutes allowing his mind to continue to wander, but he also realized the time for that had passed. He was beyond troubles, beyond Agent Clarke, beyond his mother, and beyond death. He had died the moment he had fallen out of that damned plane, and this protracted fall was borrowed time. And for that, he couldn’t help but be gratef— 


Art by Eris O'Reilly

Art by Eris O'Reilly

Flash Fiction Story 012: "Homecoming Deferred"

Even though it was about to be directly responsible for the cessation of my life functions, the X1029 Space Fighter is designed with a plethora of redundancies. 

Two auxiliary oxygen tanks are on stand by at any given time. If one of those fails, it’s straight to a Procyanan Spaceport for repairs. Regulations are there for a reason. 

The ship also came complete with enough battery cells to power seven X1029s through fourteen separate round trips from Alpha Centauri back to the homeworld. Save for a cascade power failure, the lights would stay on and the computer would still hum. 

The craft can also make its normal cruising speed, and maintain standard orbit around most class seven planets if three out of five distortion engines went off line.

Which made the cascade power failure, followed by the complete failure of four distortion engines, all the more alarming. Ozone filled the cockpit as the main porthole window flashed blue-white, then complete black repeatedly for several unnerving minutes. With a thud that probably damaged even more of the ship’s systems, everything around me and the crew became suddenly silent.

Pain radiated through my left elbow, but I ignored it. All previous intelligence indicates that the planet has a breathable atmosphere. Information on the culture and technology of the natives has always been sketchy. With any luck, I would survive this brief detour. I had two upper appendages, and a cranial structure that—while odd looking among my people on Procyon IV—would serve to only make me look somewhat “pin-headed” among the people of Earth. I’d be able to blend in, I keep telling myself. I reached out with my good arm and opened the cockpit hatch, and staggered out of the ship. I needed to be prepared for anything.

A row of their primitive dwellings dotted one of their thoroughfares. Each abode had a primitive land vehicle in front of it, and the tableau inspired a grim realization within me. I had crashed in a populated area. This was less than ideal. The ship crashed in some sort of artificial miniaturized lake adjoining one of the dwellings. Made of concrete and covered for the native’s cold season, it at least would have given me some time to cover my vehicle before it was discovered.

Time was not on my side. If I were to avoid being captured by the natives, I would have to get moving and blend in among the populace. It shouldn’t be hard. Just before it lost all power, my positional transponder indicated that this was not a major Metrozone, but instead one of the human’s smaller settlements.

Damn it.

The moment I put the words “it shouldn’t be that hard” in my log, I had tempted the wrath of The Great Celestial. By the time I had decided I wouldn’t be overrun by a local swarm, I had sealed my doom. Apparently, I had landed among these Earth people during a high holy festival. 

As I emerged onto a main thoroughfare outside of the residential area, people milled about in large crowds. They held banners and flags. Many of them played raucous, tinny music. Still more were dressed in some manner of uniform. My initial briefing on the people of Earth indicated that they dressed with no common theme to their wardrobe, but here many appeared to be adorned in variations on the same outfit. Was this some sort of military exercise? That possibility seemed far fetched; even the children wore the bright orange uniform. Surely a creature would not be conscripted into the planet’s military before they reached fifteen cycles. It boggled the mind.

I wish the translation filter had not been damaged in the crash; I might have been able to make sense out of all of this, but their writing and symbology meant little to me. They were excited; that was about all my observations could support. 

My cover was paramount, and yet a lack of understanding is often fatal. I stopped one of the humans and—with the limited amount of Earth language training I had received—attempted to communicate with it.

“Quel genre de célébration est-ce?” I shouted at the creature to make sure I was heard over the reverie.

The creature looked at me with a mixture of blank incomprehension and discomfort. Leave it to me to find the one person who doesn’t speak the planet’s native language. After it worked through enough of its confusion it made these noises in response: “Yall arnt frum roun dese parts our ya.”

Wanting to avoid losing my cover, and still wanting to get some information about what this all meant, I opted instead to flail my arms towards the festivities in a gesture I hoped indicated inquisitiveness.

The native’s confusion only deepened. It once again expatiated this time offering to following nonsensical string. “Gawd dang eeet boy eignt yoo eva bin too homecomin’.”

Its words raised an octave at the end. In whatever half-formed pidgin this creature used to get through its day, it appeared to be asking a question. I tried to form a smile and shrug, feeling that amiable ignorance would invite the least continued scrutiny. It shook its head and ran off, screaming this final battle cry:


It then joined a group of its brethren huddled around a contained fire committed to the activity of immolating shards of meat. My stomach turned. They were either cannibals or carnivores, and I couldn’t immediately decide which was worse.

With no more—and perhaps less, if that’s possible—information about my situation than when I started, I continued to try to walk among the crowd. I can only hope that this message reaches the homeworld soon. If these humans carry about like this every day, I am fairly certain I will not survive long.

Art by Eris O'Reilly

Art by Eris O'Reilly

Flash Fiction Story 011: "The Creme Brûlée is Still Caramelizing"

The menu for their last meal was delectable. Chef Henri outdid himself.

For hors d’oeuvre, canapés à l’amiral. The lime juice was especially tart, which only encouraged the Board of Directors of Americans Supporting Sovereignty to drink down their glasses of white Bordeaux. The Board was more interested in the wine, anyway.

After the serving staff cleared away their opening salvos, bowls of cream of barley soup—Henri’s speciality, aside from desert—arrived. Again, each and every member of the Board was more interested in the accompanying Madeira wine.

The seafood course followed and while Henri applied his expected level of exceptional craft to the poached salmon with mousseline sauce, those attending agreed that their regrettable distance from either coast doomed the fish to be merely average. 

Henri regained his footing with the main course. The man did things with a filet mignon that—were cattle aware of their fate in this world—would have viewed their deaths as absolutely worth it.

The last normal moments of The Board’s life came with the arrival of a champagne sorbet to cleanse their palates. Had they known that nothing would be the same after the cheese course, they might have savored the final moments under the protections of polite society. 

The cheese course went…strangely. It should have been their first clue that something was amiss, but they were so completely lost in the hazy afterglow of Henri’s beef that their qualms were never said out loud. They may have also been confused. Not one member of the Board had ever consumed a Ritz cracker with a dollop of Matthew McConaughey Brand Canned Cheese™. Many of them thought it must have been a delicacy from Henri’s native—if completely unknown—country. Others were more concerned that the presentation was more along the lines of an amuse-bouche. 

And then came the creme brûlée…

Or, rather the lack of it’s coming. Chef Henri emerged from his kitchen to address his diners. “My apologies for the delay. I pray your appetites will bear the continued wait, but the Creme Brûlée is still caramelizing.”

They were entirely understanding. Art takes time to perfect, and if Chef Henri needed time, then time he would have.

After an hour, people became concerned. The President of the Board might have shuffled into the kitchen to see if there was some manner of emergency, but it would be quite gauche to leave her guests.

Another two hours passed, and the next day officially began. Those assembled were getting restless, but what could they do? While it would have been slightly against etiquette for the President to pop herself into the kitchen, it was an absolute anathema for anyone to leave the festivities before the desert course was served.

Daylight came, and still no sign of Henri or the brûlée. By then, the power structure among the Board began to shift. Had someone called for a vote of no confidence in that moment, surely the President would have lost all of her authority. Still, no one left. The last thing any of them would do is anything that might be considered rude, even if they hadn’t had anything to eat—not a morsel—in nearly twelve hours.

Some of them wanted to leave, but wouldn’t dare. By the second day, their worries turned to dying of starvation, but they should have been able to rest easy. Hunger would not kill them for weeks. Now, their feelings about going hungry were a different matter entirely. 

By dawn on the third day, all hell had broken loose. They were quickly becoming delirious and yet unable to exercise enough free will to leave the party. Old factions within the Board—some of them simmering for decades—had exploded into blood feuds. The Recording Secretary became convinced that the Vice-President had been hoarding a few morsels of Ritz crackers that he had found unpalatable. His death was swift, but there were no Ritz crackers to be found. They had long since stopped wondering why their beloved Chef Henri had left them so heartlessly to their own devices. Was he simply mad? Did he hail from some far flung country that Americans Supporting Sovereignty had denounced with their activities?

Which country did he come from?

Days more passed and as with most violent, bloody conflicts over limited resources, there were few survivors. In the end, money won the fight. The Treasurer looked over the bloody wreck of the party and realized that—according to the group’s bylaws, he was now the President and sole member of the organization.

A modicum of guilt, and more than a little unwillingness to take on the responsibilities of the Presidency forced the Treasurer to ensure that he was not the last survivor of Americans Supporting Sovereignty for long.

Chef Henri refocused himself on the task at hand and caramelized the final ramekin. He didn’t normally dream of the people he cooked for turning on each other in fury and blood, but such fanciful imagining can make the work go by easier. As he turned off the butane torch, he realized the fantasy he had concocted didn’t matter. He fully believed the people he currently served would eventually leave the dinner party, even if he never served the dessert course.

At least, he was pretty sure they would have that much sense. No, if Henri wanted these people dead, he could not rely on them to destroy one another. He would have to get his hands dirty. He wiped some powdered sugar from the tips of his fingers and watched the waiters deliver the final course.

Art by Eris O'Reilly

Art by Eris O'Reilly

Flash Fiction Story 010: "The Scratch"

Thk thk thk.

It’s five AM and the only coherent thought that my mind can manage is this:

My cat is an asshole.

Not in the sense that my cat is weirdly fascinated with showing me her asshole on a regular basis, although she does. Actually, she is an emotional terrorist. I’m going to feed her in a minute. I will. I will.

But is that good enough?

Thk thk thk.

Apparently not. Lately, in her efforts to both get her meals precisely on time and claw at any substance that will not fight back, she had pawed a perfectly cat-sized hole into the box spring of my bed. From there, she has burrowed into the interior of said box spring and invented a fun new alarm clock for me.

Thk thk thk.

I like my cat. I like my cat. I like my cat. It doesn’t matter if she particularly likes me. I’m pretty sure she does. After all, I control the food, even though that’s not helping me out all that much today.

If she could just chill out for another twenty minutes… That would be all I need.

I burrowed my head deeper into my pillow as the cat burrowed herself even deeper into the box spring. At least she comes about this behavior honestly, I suppose.

No. This is a cat. I am a human. I am the boss here. She’s the pet and even if ancient Egyptians worshipped her ancestors to an unhealthy degree, she is just going to have to exercise some self control and WAIT. FOR. HER. GODDAMN. FOOD.

“Kitty cat!” I cried out. “Stop it with the damn scratching!”

Sweet, blissful silence followed. See? Cats are fine if you just try to appeal to their sense of propriety.

And then…

Thk thk thk.

At this point, you might fairly say that I’m spending more energy resisting getting out of bed than I would if I just caved into the cat’s demands and make with the chicken and rice formula.

I rolled over. A feeble, tentative step in my larger surrender. The day was beginning whether I acquiesced or not. The cat had won this game of chicken. Continued intransigence would help no one.

That goddamn cat.

I reached over for my glasses on the night table, and found a health dollop of guilt instead. Curled up next to me was my little ball of floof. I was just being cranky. It wasn’t fair to her.

She purred and everything was right with the world once more, although I found a whole new reason not to get out of bed.

Thk thk thk.

Then it dawned on me. She hadn’t been the thing in my bed scratching at all.

Art by Eris O'Reilly

Art by Eris O'Reilly

Flash Fiction Story 009: "Keys Made While You Wait"

“You are Ignatius Slipwhipple,” the man behind the counter said. When I looked at him, I knew I was in trouble. He had a perpetually furrowed brow, dark eyes, and a name tag that read “Welcome to Smith’s Hardware - Keys Made While You Wait - My Name is Vladimir.” My mind may have been playing tricks on me, but I could have sworn that the “R” was actually a Cyrillic character.

Yes, yes I know. I should have known much earlier. What are you, my mother? There is one rule at my job, and that is you can never lose your key. NORAD can be very particular like that. Where is my key? Well, if I knew that we wouldn’t be having this discussion now, would we? it’s gone. I mean, gone. I’m thinking I accidentally dropped it in my trash can when I brought it out to the curb. If that’s true, there’s a Colorado Springs garbage man who has no idea he currently possesses half of what is required to bring the United States and the Soviet Union into World War III.

I should have been a garbage man. Would have been much easier that way.

In such a dilemma as mine, I could find only three solutions. I could admit my problem to my superiors. If they would just change chefs at Fort Leavenworth, that might have been my best option. I could say nothing, and hope that Reagan and Chernenko would just be cool and I’d never need my keys. The third option? Swipe my partner’s key and get a copy made on my lunch break before anyone could notice.

Guess which one I picked.

“Yes, that’s me,” I answered his non-question.

“You are Missile Technician Level One at North American Aerospace Defense Command stationed at Cheyenne Mountain Air Force Station.”

I swallowed, but my mouth was dry. I tried not to stare at the staple gun he was cleaning on the counter. That doesn’t even begin to cover Vladimir’s associate, who appeared to be taking a nap on the floor of the back room. “Yes. How did you know?”

He pointed at me. “Your name tag identifies you quite clearly, Mr. Slipwhipple.” The “w” in my name sounded like a “v.” It did. It did? My mind must have been playing tricks on me.

“Oh,” I said. “You make copies of keys here? It says ‘Do Not Duplicate’ on it, but if that’s a problem, I’ll pay extra…”

He stopped pointing and opened his palm. “We specialize in it. Give your key to me.”

I was in too deep at this point. I was, wasn’t I? I reached into my pocket, and for a moment panicked that I had lost the second key in half as many days, but I eventually found them. I handed it to Vladimir. 

He examined the key closely, like a jeweler trying to figure out the clarity of a diamond. “Very unusual,” he decided. “Normally I do not carry this type of key, but you may be in luck…” In mid-sentence he retreated to the backroom. His coworker did not stir.

Minutes passed as I heard what sounded to be Vladimir’s key making machine saving my ass. Everything was going to be fine.

After ten minutes, I became less confident in my salvation. After a radio broadcast of “Be Glorious, our free Motherland” joined the cacophony, my dread calcified.

Vladimir rejoined me twenty minutes later holding two missile keys. The radio in the back had moved onto a choir “The Internationale.”

“I know I’m going to regret asking this question,” I said to him, still eyeing his work suspiciously. “But is there any chance you made an extra copy for yourself while you were back there?”

He gave the keys a confused look and then returned his gaze to me. “Why would I do such a thing?” he was all smiles now.

“I…” I said. “I’d assume you would have your reasons.”

“No. Of course not. Here at this establishment we would never betray our customer’s trust like that. Here, take your key. Free of charge. Your satisfaction is wery important to us, Mr. Slipwhipple.”

I grabbed the original and the copy and made my way towards the exit. I had been utterly defeated. I, and I imagine, Capitalism. There really was only one thing left to do. I turned back towards the counter.

“Um… One more question. Are you hiring here? I may need to defect—er, rather—I may be in the job market.”

Art by Eris O'Reilly

Art by Eris O'Reilly

Flash Fiction Story 008: "Pitch Session"

Before I could begin my second whiskey sour, the warm air of the bar froze. The hairs on my arms and the back of my neck electrified.

Death had come for me.

“You’re late,” I told him.

The specter raised an ectoplasmic appendage, unleashed a moan that sounded more like the death rattle of a humpback whale, and pulled up a chair.

“Sorry,” the ghost said. His name was Pete. It was an unusual name for a ghost. “Traffic on the turnpike was kill—er, difficult.”

“It’s fine.” It was. I hadn’t been waiting long.

The waitress came around, holding my fabled second drink. “Can I get you… anything?” she asked Pete, tripping over the last word.

Pete flowered and the lights flickered. Even I knew the anger was bullshit. He had spent so much time holding on to every ounce of anger that drifted into his orbit, he wasn’t about to let an errant question fly past him.

Wind flew, rattling glasses and sending wine lists flying. Pete’s face took on a demonic air; the hellish fury he now summoned directing itself entirely toward our hapless waitress.

Also, bullshit. Just as quickly as it appeared, his volcanic displeasure subsided. When no one was laughing at the display, Pete almost seemed guilty. “How are your spirits?” he asked icily.

The waitress remained frozen. Pete’s wispy approximation of a face held its frown for several seconds, before erupting in a gale of laughter. “I’m just kidding…” the glowing orbs meant to serve as the spirit world’s answer for eyes narrowed, squinting at the waitress’ name tag. “Petunia. I’ll just have a Cab Sav. Can’t drink or eat anymore, but I sure can smell.” 

Petunia the waitress went to retrieve the order, and he turned his gaze to me. “This is where you say, ‘Damn right, you smell.’”

I said nothing. He often made this—I want to say “joke,” but jokes usually have some degree of mirth and aren’t repeated ad infinitum—when we went out in public. It made me feel uncomfortable. It made everyone feel uncomfortable. It needed to start making him feel uncomfortable. I’d like to think that my lack of reaction tonight might have brought him to that point, but he’s a fucking ghost. What the hell does he have to be uncomfortable about?

We let the silence hang for a moment. Maybe he was starting to wonder just how long he had been making this joke.

I chose to euthanize the silence. “So, you brought me all the way out here…What have you got for me?”

He took a moment to collect his thoughts. Whatever he had rattling around in that ephemeral head-shaped blob of his, he didn’t want to just come about and say it.

“I have an idea for a new book,” he finally blurted out.

My honest reaction—too honest? maybe—cemented itself on my face. This wasn’t the reaction he was hoping for. Then again, this wasn’t really the conversation I had been hoping for. Life and death can be so unfair at times.

“I know what you’re going to say!” he lunged into my argument for me. “The last one didn’t do so hot. But this one is a whole new idea. It’s never been done before!”

I tried to stay silent, but knew that would be mistaken for permission to continue. He would continue with his pitch either way, and I eventually opted for an illusion of control over how this conversation would play out. “Go on…” I muttered.

“Do you ever wonder what happens after you die?”

I tried to find Petunia. I then called out, “Check please,” to an uncaring and disinterested universe.

“I’m serious,” he insisted.

I turned to look to him. I had no trouble believing he was serious; hence my panic. “No. I don’t wonder what happens to me after I die. I’ll turn in to one of you. Everyone does.”

“But what if you didn’t?”

I reached for my purse and retrieved a few tens from the billfold. It was probably too much, but not having to wait for Petunia to summon the courage to return would be a steal at twice the price.

“Come on, it’s high-concept,” he said after I reached to finish her own drink. “A ghost’s gotta—”


Stymied, he looked away. It was weakness. Even if I was into the idea, this would have soured things. “I was going to say ‘live,’ but there’s not really a good word with which I could end that sentence.” He shrugged. It looked more like wind coursing through drapes. “I’ve got bills, just like everybody else.”

I relaxed, if only for a moment. If I insisted on ending the conversation here, he won’t stop calling the office. “What’s the story for your idea, hm?”

He hesitated. “Well, I haven’t figured that part out yet.”

"In this world of yours, do ghosts exist?”

“Sure…” he hissed the word; it could have been any other word when he started with “s.” Clearly he hadn’t thought that part through yet, either.

“How do people feel about ghosts in this fantasy?”

“They’re… scared of them?” he answered. I got the sense that he wanted to end the sentence any other way, but couldn’t.

“People are scared of ghosts, but at the same time not entirely sure they exist?” I asked. I was halfway out of the bar before he could manage an answer. “Pete, it’s a little far-fetched. Don’t call me again.”

Art by Eris O'Reilly

Art by Eris O'Reilly