Baby Talk

The baby held the red plastic phone to her ear, nodding and babbling.  I smiled, at least until the cockroach skittered down the cord.  Thing must’ve been three inches long.  I snatched the phone; the baby squalled, uncomprehending. 

Eventually I dumped it outside.  I’d disinfect it in the morning.

That night, I woke to the baby’s cry.  “Da!  Da!” 

I saw her standing in the doorway, roaches streaming past her chubby legs.  One big one perched unmoving on her shoulder.

As the filthy black bodies filled my mouth, all I could think was, Thing must be three inches, at least.

Structural Decay

He got up, just like every morning, and shut off the alarm clock.  He brushed his teeth and got dressed.  He didn’t notice anything odd until he got to the kitchen and tried to verb the eggs. 

He blinked and looked down at the saucepan, where the nouns still sat, verbing. 

“What?” he verbed.

He tried to verb the nouns again, but pronoun wouldn’t verb.

Frantically, he clung to specificity, but pronoun verbed adverb.

Noun verbed preposition article noun, but when he opened it, he saw the noun fading into adjective noun.  Noun verbed.  Noun verbed adverb.

“Expletive,” Noun verbed.

Interrupted

At the black basalt altar, the skeleton sat, propped up only by vines and the stillness of the air.  Carol and Lynn hardly dared breathe.  Bony fingers were still poised over the keys of the typewriter, a model that would have been as anachronistic when the room was built as now.  The stack of paper beside it was curiously intact, with all else fallen to dust.

“Can you see what he was writing?” asked Lynn.

Carol squinted.  “T...H...E... E...N... then it breaks off.”

They thought about this for a while.

“I think we should leave the door closed,” said Lynn.

Among the Lost

The bag slipped.  A potato chip fell into the crack between the couch cushions.  I reached in after it.  My arm went in and down.  I felt loose change slide past my fingers.  I found an old battery.

Why stop there? I wondered. 

I slid deeper, down to the springs, down to the carpet, and the bare concrete.  I passed the subways and the dirt, a rusted signpost, a sunken city of blind things that mewled like kittens.

And the dark.

That’s where I stayed.

I’m sure they’ve sold my things by now.  Including the couch.

Careful with your chips.

"No More Teachers, No More Books" at Toasted Cake

My horror/comedy flash fiction, "No More Teachers, No More Books" is live at Toasted Cake to celebrate the end of the school year.

Don't be a victim of brain drain, kids.

Also, listen to Toasted Cake in general because it has short and weird, which you clearly already like or you wouldn't be here, and it also has Tina Connolly's mellifluous tones and self-evidently high editorial standards.  ;-)

Buzzing the Scales

Burt rechecked the bindings.  The only thing worse than an improperly waxed crocodile was losing footing mid-slalom. 

The bell sounded.  Burt launched himself forward.  His crocodile grinned as ice chips and powdery snow sheared from its scales, stinging Burt’s face.

Flags passed in a blur.  Burt couldn’t remember how far he’d come; there was only the present: the slope, the ice, and the crocodile.

He barely realized he had come to a halt until he heard the murmurs of the crowd.

Murmurs?  Not cheers?

He saw his time and gasped.  A personal best.  Maybe a record!

Why were they so quiet?

The judge approached, grim-faced.  “Disqualified,” he rumbled.  He pointed down.  Burt’s croc gazed at him, reptilian eyes hooded and impassive. 

“That,” said the judge, “is an alligator.”

Swords and Sorcery

George hadn't enjoyed his first day at Tramford Accountancy.  He suspected it showed on his face as he walked to the subway beside his new supervisor, gray-haired and gray-faced Mr. Erkenwhyte.

When the dragon emerged from the darkened tunnel, squamous and shrieking, George was taken aback.  He'd have been eaten instantly, but at the last moment, he saw a flash of gray, and the dragon retreated with a roar, spurting black ichor from its solitary eye.

"You will learn, boy," said Mr. Erkenwhyte.  "The monsters are always there, and this," he brandished his fountain pen, tip gleaming, "is my weapon."