Flash Fiction

That Which I So Hated

This was a flash fiction piece from a prompted competition. 24 hours to write a 1000-word story, using Construction Site as the setting, A Cage as the object and Sci Fi as the genre.

A year following the War, my hatred still consumed me. Memories of murdered family fueled teams of us to work to exhaustion, constructing a stadium-sized black granite base that would hold the Cage, a giant silicon-diamond sphere designed to forever contain the demons we'd fought.

Raptorlike in the air, pumalike on the ground, the Susurrus were the whisper-quiet, shape-shifting beasts who descended upon us from space with only their bodies to protect them. They were the worst of foes, mindless, amoral, a perfect homicidal species. They could knot and solidify their skin to spin like grinders through brick. Or they could murder with the clean flight of a scythe. They neither drank nor ate nor slept. They claimed neither land nor treasure, abandoning their human kill to suffer and rot, engaging in tireless slaughter of life for its own sake.

Humans threw centuries of technology at them. Wheaton blasters, scabbard arrays, pulse lasers, infrasonics. Like bacteria, they quickly modified their biology to fend off each challenge. More than two billion humans died before we finally lucked into a way to defeat them. 19th century weapons failed to injure or slow them, but the blasts deposited masses of iron flak into their bodies, rendering them vulnerable to powerful magnetic Stein beams. Overnight, we could steer them around the sky at will.

In the weeks that followed, every known Susurrus was collected and placed into magnetic holding grids. Exhaustive tests revealed no weaknesses. We could forever contain but never kill them.

The Cage was conceived.

For me, containment was weak revenge. I wanted them to suffer as my family had, but if the Cage was our only option, so be it. However, some others' discontent with its proposal moved them to reckless action. Some believed the Susurrus had souls and attempted a rescue. Others refused to see the Susurrus go unpunished and attempted an extermination raid. In each case, no humans survived and fifty beasts escaped. Ever fearing their return, Stein beams were trained on the sky at all hours as we continued the base's construction over the next ten months.

When we completed work, a Megalift lowered the massive Cage into place. Though celebration was in order, we dared not pause. The War had dragged on for years but if we pushed ourselves, the enemy might be caged in its entirety in a day.

The construction site transformed into a factory floor. Stein beams forced Susurrus along in magnetic corral lines. I stood behind one of fourteen phase gun turrets, teleporting one after another of the Susurrus into the Cage with every gratifying trigger pull. Once inside, they assumed the form of tightly packed, slime-skinned bags, their snarling, hissing faces pressed against the translucent walls.

"It's almost over, Parnie" I shouted to the next phase gunner. He turned to answer. A Susurrus soared down from behind him. Parnie's torso expoloded. His triumphant smile gave way to dull surprise then lifelessness as he crumpled to the ground.

Four amorphous schools of Susurrus attacked the phase gun line, each like a tooth in an airborne saw.

I rounded my turret on the nearest group, teleporting one after another of the bawling beasts into the Cage. I dove to the ground as those I had missed destroyed my gun. I zigzagged to the next turret and dispatched another handful. Already, only three phase gunners still lived to fight but the enemy had also been substantially thinned. The last few of them dropped in a formation toward me. I removed another three and dove to the side as the others slammed into my turret. It disintegrated into purple flame ejecting a hot shard of iron into my thigh.

The Susurrus turned together and sped toward me. With no cover and my leg ruined, I awaited death.

With a low roar and vibrations so strong my skin shook on the bone, I shot agonizingly into the air and, there, hung upside down from the metal in my leg. A Stein beam held the Susurrus in midair, and me with them. Immediately, seeing the last beasts' vulnerability, both surviving phase gunners let go a rapid barrage of teleporting fire.

Half or more Susurrus disappeared before a shot found me. I felt simultaneously ripped apart and crushed by unimaginable force. A moment later, I was with them in the Cage, balancing on a moving floor of bodies.

Amongst their number, I was lost, irretrievable. No phase gun could draw me out without also releasing more Susurrus. My colleagues wouldn't try. No one man was worth such a risk.

A short standoff followed as the Susurrus assimilated my unlikely presence. With utter loathing, they closed on me fast. But instead of tearing me to bits, they held me still as another of them attached to my chest. Something entered between my ribs. When he removed himself, though I retained my identity and human form, he had changed me in a way I could not then identify.

They gave me no time to contemplate. The same individual charged, messily gouging a fist-sized slab of flesh from my waist. His venomous saliva burned like a torch. Such pain was impossible. My eyes rolled back and I prayed for pity.

I thought Susurrus had retreated to enjoy my slow death, but, impossibly fast and with a tearing pain that stole my breath, my wound closed over.

Their procedure had succeeded.

For untold time, I have remained unable to die. I suffer their constant vengeance, hiddeously gored only to revive again. Their perpetual victim. Their toy.

My kind sees me, thousands of them some days. I am no longer real to them. Rent and healed over, countless times, I have become a symbol to them, a show, a dramatic warning of how evil in the world is real.

I no longer await rescue or death. I no longer care for life or the living.

I am becoming that which I so hated.

The Jury Is Out

This was a flash fiction piece from a prompted competition. 24 hours to write a 1000-word story, using A Courtroom as the setting, Remote Controlled Car as the object and Mystery as the genre.

Flick and I had been part of the crew at the same TV show for most of a decade, so I figured I knew him pretty well. That day, he looked pale and distracted, quieter than his usual attentive self. He was making last-minute adjustments to radio-controlled rollers he'd built, like little cars he'd be using to move a jury booth back and forth during an upcoming courtroom scene. And I had just finished building polishing the fake emblem on the judge's bench. A thick curtain behind me separated us from, Phil Nuren, the star of the show, as he warmed up a live audience with tired jokes.

"What's up, Flick?" He'd shrugged off the question the first three times I'd asked him. "Bad weed or something?"

"What's wrong? Christa cheated on me, Gibbons. That's what's wrong."

Shit. I should have let him keep shrugging me off.

Christa was Flick's ex-stripper -- probably ex-hooker -- girlfriend. A real piece of ass, top to bottom. A body, face and attitude that moaned sex. She was a real piece of work, too, loud and easy to anger, but Flick thought the world of her. Pussy made some guys blind. From the beginning I had her pegged as a leech.

Problem is, I'd also had her pegged, sometimes twice a week, back in Wardrobe while Flick was off playing with his toys. She called me Big Fish. I knew the type, liked big fellas like me, wasn't looking for attachments. I figured she could keep a secret, though. A vision of bending Christa over a metal carton flashed across my mind. I shook my head to clear the memory away.

"Found out this morning." He didn't look up from his work. "Someone here."

Not knowing what he knew, all I said was "Dude."

"Yeah. Thought you'd find that interesting."

"Listen. I--"

"No, man," he said. "It was just a matter of time. I mean, look at me. Look at her." He stared forward, stood and walked back to the big bag he brought to work everyday. He usually pulled out a pneumatic cylinder or a rocker arm that he'd worked on at home, but he pulled out a roll of paper, unrolled it and taped it to the inside of the jury box, the prop he'd been working on.

"She was drunk," he said. "I didn't want her to go out drunk. She blew up at me. First time ever. Called me a flunky."

"Flick. You don't deserve this. Did she say who it--"

"She said she'd been fucking the big fish. Right here under my nose." He pointed at the curtain, indicating Phil.

The Big Fish.

On stage, Phil was thanking the audience for coming out. He a robot when it came to work. He was a long-time functioning alcoholic. He'd never missed a day, a cue or a line. His bit never changed. We had ninety seconds before the show started.

"You know, Gibbons? I didn't want to hurt her."

Hurt her?

"I just didn't know what to do," he said.

This was sounding like it might be heavier shit than I'd thought at first. Regardless, it was heavy shit that would have to wait. I needed Flick in show mode. And now. Both our jobs were at risk.

"Listen, Flick. I'm sorry about Christa. We'll talk after the show. Not now. It's time to focus. You on board?"

He didn't acknowledge me or look up. He picked up his RC control box. That was a bad thing. Nothing was supposed to move until the courtroom scene later. I would have told him to put the control box down but the director's voice interrupted.

"Sixty seconds. Quiet on set."

Flick flipped a button and pushed a joystick. The jury box took off, rolling out through a gap in the curtain. It'd reach Phil and the audience in seconds.

Shit.

On stage, Phil finished his last joke. "...so I gave him just the squash he was looking for." The audience erupted into laughter and applause. Then Phil noticed the jury box rolling out toward him. Being the pro that he was, he just put his hands on his hips and smiled for the crowd as if it were part of the entertainment.

Goddammit, Flick. You owe me, big time. I figuring saving his job was the least I could do considering I banged his girlfriend. I played rugby in college so I was fast for a big guy. I darted through the curtain. Flick screamed for me to stop but I ignored him.

Confused talking and expectant giggles spread through the audience as I reached the still-rolling jury box. Flick had taped a hand-drawn poster to it.

PHIL NUREN FUCKED MY fianc�e!
NOW HE'S FUCKED.

Fianc�e? Flick hadn't said a thing about being engaged. And he was off his rocker thinking Phil was Christa's Big Fish. She'd have broken Phil in half. I shook my head again, thinking about her bent over that crate.

I was afraid the jury box was getting close enough that the audience might read the poster so I leaned down, blocked it with my body and felt around for good places to grip it. Succeeding, I planted my feet and pushed as hard as I could. The moment Flick's motor detected resistance, a tight package of explosives and ball bearings behind the poster detonated, killing me instantly.

Even though my body took most of the blast, Phil caught shrapnel in his thigh. He sued the holding company that owned the show and retired in Spain with the money the court awarded him for his suffering. Flick served a life sentence for Christa's murder, my manslaughter and two hundred eighty counts of recklessly endangering the audience.

I guess everyone involved got what they deserved. Did the punishments fit the crimes? I guess the jury is still out on that one.

When We Bring Her was written for a San Antonio Writers Guild drabble contest. A story in 100 words. I don't recall there being a specific them associated with this event. This one won me a cool $10. I'm not normally a timid public speaker, but I nearly froze having to read this after the win. Note: I submitted this story as Elen Gold because we needed to keep ourselves anonymous in the interest of fair judging.

When We Bring Her

By Thomas McAuley (as Elen Gold)

We will chant.
We will join hands.
We will raise our arms and circle.
Blue flames will spring from the stone piled in the center.
She will appear, a faint suggestion, a sparkling constellation.
We will sharpen the chant.
She will manifest as blowing web.
Louder then. Frantic. Gutteral.
Her body will crack into a physical form.
Never twice the same.
She may scream then and fire into Heaven like a whip's retreat.
Or she may charge through you with teeth and talon.
Whatever her choice, this will be her gift to us all.

Hero Down the Hill was one of two pieces I entered into the San Antonio Writers Guild Dark Moment Flash Fiction Contest held in October of 2008. We had to use a pen name in order to insure judging amongst our friends fair. I received votes but did not win. The winner wasn't allowed to vote for her own story. I was pleased to she had voted for this one.

The Challenge: Depict a dark moment. The story must fit on a single sheet of paper.

Hero Down the Hill

By Thomas McAuley (as Matt Blackstone)

Three of us were ambushed this morning, knocked cold and secured in a makeshift wood and wire pen. I woke first. The others rose soon after.

The guerillas, bandanas covering their faces, stunk of marijuana, sweat and animal shit. I couldn't be sure if the distance in their eyes was a result of drugs or past deeds, but they saw the world through wild dogs' eyes. Three of these rebels had first led one of my riflemen, Conway, calm and expressionless, out of view down the forest slope. The guards returned an hour later for Sgt. Ortiz. As they led him away he looked resigned to death. A second quiet hour passed the guards returned again. The leader signaled to his acquaintance to fetch me out of the pen.

Gunshots popped from down the hill.

Conway, you stupid sonofabitch. Pride. Honor. You're gonna get us killed.

Everyone outside the pen ducked, their guns at the ready. Silence followed. The guerilla leader moved ten meters down the hill and leaned over a rock edge.

A single shot rang through the forest. Everyone flinched together.

The guerilla leader gave the thumbs-up signal to someone down the hill. As he returned, he pushed his bandana down, exposing his weathered face. At that moment, I knew the outcome of the struggle. A lone pawn was of no use to these men.

Our Father who art in Heaven...

The guerilla leader addressed me in a thick Eastern European accent.

"Your friends were...idiotic." With a careless flip of his hand in my direction he mumbled the order. "Zab't jemu."

...hallowed be Thy name...

As I reached Amen, the old guard brought the butt of his rifle to his shoulder and suggested I close my eyes.