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."

Lost the Will to Live

The lamppost was tilted at a sharp angle.  Glass and plastic shards littered the asphalt.  Yellow police tape surrounded the wreckage.

“Found it like this, sir,” said Chapman.  “No sign of the occupant except for that.”  He pointed to the spreading red puddle. 

The detective knelt and dipped a finger in the lukewarm liquid.  “This isn’t blood, rook.”

“It isn’t?”

“Synthetic.  Tacky to the touch.  Hasn’t been changed in a long time.”  He stood and stared at the car.  “Rust spots.  Duct tape.  This car has been badly cared for.”

“No homicide, then?”

“No.”  The detective shook his head.  “Autocide.”

"Contest" Ended

Okay, so the promotion didn't really promote much, but thank you everyone who reads this blog anyway.  Since only two people entered and I have two spare copies, I declare everyone a winner!

Jim, "patthews," just shoot me an e-mail (thefearedavocado AT gmail) with your addresses and I will ship you your books directly.  I will even sign and dedicate them to the individual or abstract concept of your choice, if you want, with the caveat that my handwriting looks like that of a clumsy third-grader.  (I've never been much at manual dexterity, and given that I have written exclusively via computer for about a decade now, I'm not even in practice.)

Already Here, Already Watching

The duck was conspicuous.  For one thing, Hubert’s snorkel was clearly visible in the water beside it.  That it was construction-zone orange was just frosting.

“You know what?” I said, as Hubert sat in the shallows, dripping beneath his orange duck hat.  “I don’t even want to know.”

“It’s a camera,” he said.  “To watch when they come.”

“If they do, they’ll just catch you.  That thing is an eyesore.”

“It’s hunting season,” Hubert sniffed.  “Besides, aliens are colorblind.”

“Come home, Hubert.”  I tugged on his shoulder, and he rose reluctantly. 

Behind us, the ducks watched with dark, silent eyes.

Social Things

Jen opened her closet and froze.  “What is all this?”  She plucked at a random pair of jeans from the waist-high mound on the floor.  “I think I’d remember being able to afford these.”

“I swapped them.”  The cat leaped to the dresser.  “Remember you said Vivianne was the most popular girl in school?”

Jen didn’t answer, slumping slowly to the floor.

“Well,” the cat went on, “now she’ll smell like you, and everyone will think you’re popular, too!”  She licked a paw and scrubbed her cheek in satisfaction.  “And you keep saying social things are too difficult for me.”

Lazy Sunday Afternoons in Hell

Me and Satan were walking down the street when one of them lost souls come up to us and wanted to hand.  I checked the sky, but weren't no angels around, so I shrugged and asked Satan if it was okay and he shrugged and asked me if it was okay and we shrugged at the lost soul.

"Hey, how's life?" I asked.

"It hurts."

"Did you catch the game last night?" Satan asked.

"It hurts."

I kind of smiled a little because, you know, those lost souls, man.  "What are your thoughts on the pulling-off of Band-Aids?"

The soul looked right at me and its eyes were dark and deep like a hole and I fell in and I would fall forever and I knew there were spikes at the bottom just waiting all blood and rust.  I looked away.

"It hurts," the soul said.

And it does.