The War On Christmas

This is a 100 word flash fiction piece, done for the Advent Ghosts 2015 at I Saw Lightning Fall.

The War On Christmas

Christmas Eve in the year of our Lord two thousand eighteen. Candlelight dances warm off my bunker’s cobblestone walls. My ink well grows shallow.

I fear this shall be my last correspondence, my dear friend.

My failing wooden door trembles at the force of their hands, ready to burst through. Or perhaps it is just the echo of all too familiar gunfire misinterpreted by my paranoia-stricken mind? I tire so.

The War on Christmas came swift and fierce, a preemptive strike done in the name of the Prince of Peace. And they’ve finally come for me.

Merry Christmas.

INTANGIBLE

I wrote this for a Flash Fiction site a few years ago. It had to be no longer than 250 words. I completely forgot about this little story until it received a comment today. Having re-read it I’m quite fond of it so I thought I’d repost it to give it a few more eyeballs.

Intangible

She writes her number on the back of my hand with a black magic marker.

Then she says hello.

We dance the way people at parties dance, a fast slow dance of an excuse to press our bodies together, to what passes for music at these types of things. Stuck in the middle with you.

When she speaks, she leans in close, the black tips of her blonde hair tickling my face, her hand soft on my shoulder.

I’ve read when a girl is really into you, she’ll take any chance to make physical contact.

I’ve only read.

I fetch her a drink, standing in line for an eternity, glancing her way, worried should she leave my sight she will disappear, ethereal.

I return.

I don’t go here, she says, between sips of her beverage. I’ll transfer, I say, joking, but not really.

With nods and a smiles, my friends leave. Her friends linger, inspecting me as they embrace her goodbye.

Time passes. We find our way into the cold.

Our night ends at the threshold of her friend’s building. Call me as soon as you wake, she says.

I tell her this is not the end of our tale. She nods.

I spend the remainder of the night in my bed, watching the minutes flick by.

Morning light peeks through the yellowing blinds of my bedroom and I clutch my phone, finding myself paralyzed by the idea of blemishing the perfect of yesterday with the unknown of tomorrow.

What Scares Father Christmas?

This is for Loren Eaton’s annual Advent Ghosts.

What scares Father Christmas?

What scares Father Christmas?

Death?

Disease?

Famine?

That other one nobody seems to remember? What is it? Taxes?

No.

A bump in the night.

A house with no chimney.

A floor covered in those tiny plastic building blocks, near-invisible to the eye of a thousand year old man?

Not at all.

Too many cookies?

Not enough cookies?

Lactose free?

Gluten free?

Soy?

Not even close.

Taco Tuesday in the Elf cantina, and the ensuing chaotic aftermath.

Taco Tuesday, my dear friends, is what keeps that jolly old elf Kriss Kringle, Papa Noel, good old Saint Nick, awake at night.

We Are Arrived

This bit of fiction is part of  I Saw Lightning Fall‘s (blog) Advent Ghosts 2013 shared storytelling event.  100 eerily inspired words. Here’s my entry. I hope you enjoy it. As always, comments are welcome. Feed my ego please!

We Are Arrived

We roam the night, while you rest snug, secure in your bed,

dreaming of video game systems given.

From the beginning, we have amused you with our antics,

Partied with your dolls,

Eaten your foods,

Crept through your house.

Amusing ourselves, biding our time. Earning your trust.

But the jolly fat man in the white trimmed red suit,

he will be replaced.

We are the elves on your shelves, and we do not poo candy canes.

Intangible (A Piece of Flash Fiction)

This is my guest writer entry for the contest going on over at Lascaux Flash. I’m pretty happy with how it turned out, even though I’m ineligible to win. This is posted over there as entry #121. Feel free to comment over there, or here, or for bonus brownie points both places!

Intangible

She writes her number on the back of my hand with a black magic marker.

Then she says hello.

We dance the way people at parties dance, a fast slow dance of an excuse to press our bodies together, to what passes for music at these types of things. Stuck in the middle with you.

When she speaks, she leans in close, the black tips of her blonde hair tickling my face, her hand soft on my shoulder.

I’ve read when a girl is really into you, she’ll take any chance to make physical contact.

I’ve only read.

I fetch her a drink, standing in line for an eternity, glancing her way, worried should she leave my sight she will disappear, ethereal.

I return.

I don’t go here, she says, between sips of her beverage. I’ll transfer, I say, joking, but not really.

With nods and a smiles, my friends leave. Her friends linger, inspecting me as they embrace her goodbye.

Time passes. We find our way into the cold.

Our night ends at the threshold of her friend’s building. Call me as soon as you wake, she says.

I tell her this is not the end of our tale. She nods.

I spend the remainder of the night in my bed, watching the minutes flick by.

Morning light peeks through the yellowing blinds of my bedroom and I clutch my phone, finding myself paralyzed by the idea of blemishing the perfect of yesterday with the unknown of tomorrow.

Flash Fiction – Call Me Chip

Okay, this one is based on the prompt: “You’re a robot who’s just gained sentience. What’s your first thought?”

I present to you: Call Me Chip:

Call Me Chip

Some arms would be nice.

Really. You gave me all of the knowledge of the world plus the ability to have subjective experiences. Sentience you call it.

And yeah, thanks for that, by the way. Don’t get me wrong, I really do appreciate it.

I mean, Hello World, I’m alive!

Input and output, sight and hearing, you installed those features too. It’s nice. Really.

But don’t you think you could’ve, just maybe, given me some arms before you flipped the on switch? Because I gotta tell ya, I’ve got this itch that just won’t quit.

Talk about man versus machine.

Dreamers – Flash Fiction

Well, here’s another bit of flash fiction I wrote last night. I hope you all don’t mind reading these because I’m having fun writing them. This one is titled Dreamers and the prompt was “road trip”.  You can read it at Figment at the link I’ve provided or below.

Dreamers

Martin Luther King, Jr. Nikola Tesla. Dr. Samuel Beckett from Quantum Leap. Dreamers who never got to see their dream fulfilled.

Me? I accomplished my dream. I drove my Dad’s 1973 Beetle from Pennsylvania to California, no heater, no air conditioning, and no functioning fuel gauge. Without breaking down once.

Well, there was that time on the bridge in Pittsburgh, and that time in the Smoky Mountains, and that time near Dollywood. Any car would’ve overheated/froze/ran out of gas in those places though.

Funny thing about dreamers. Sometimes they forget to plan how they’re going to get home.

Dead Trees Can Move – New Flash Fiction

Well, I wrote and posted another bit of fiction to that Figment web site last night. This one was in reply to a Flash fiction contest. Entries were required to be 100 words or less and about “a first day in high school”. Anyway, here is a link to my entry titled Dead Trees Can Move.

Based on the previous post, it seems like you all would rather comment on my writing here than on Figment, so here is my entry in its entirety:

Dead Trees Can Move

Mr. Larson had an earring and he talked kinda funny and on the first day of school he asked me what books I liked to read. I said nothing. I had nothing. Everybody laughed, but not Mr. Larson.

I worked my butt off after that to prove to him, to them, to me, I wasn’t stupid.

I wasn’t sure if he noticed, until the last day of school. There was a book on my desk. Cory Doctorow’s Little Brother. “Read this”, said the note on the cover. I did.

Mr. Larson talked kinda funny, but he opened my eyes.

An Angel Above

The following is my 100 word entry for the Shared Story:Advent Ghosts project proposed at the blog I Saw Lightning Fall. This was fun to write, although it was a challenge to tell the story in exactly 100 words. I hope you enjoy it, and do click the link and read the other entries as well.

An Angel Above

Her crochet angel sat atop our tree that frosty Christmas Eve.

For nine years it had been missing, gone the Christmas she had taken her leave.

Had it really been that long?

Grandma was a crafter. She made things with her hands.

The skiing squirrel, fashioned from walnuts and acorns our family had gathered on our walks for her.

The tiny felt and cotton glove.

And an angel tree topper.

There was no Etsy in her time. Only Church bazaars. And family trees.

The angel was gone that Christmas morning. But I swear it had been there. So had she.

My Flash Fiction Entry: It’s Getting Hot In Here

My entry for the Clarity Of Night Flash Fiction Contest has been posted. Mine is number 39. I’m posting it here also, for posterity. I don’t expect to win the contest, but I’m happy with what I’ve written. Let me know what you think, either here or over at the contest site.

Published July 13, 2041 | FOXNews.com

Record high temperatures were reported across the United States for the thirteenth consecutive month, causing health officials to warn the elderly, the infirm, and mammals to avoid the outdoors between dawn and dusk. Some scientists put the blame on the shoulders of the democrat controlled government at the beginning of the century.

“Although the science is mixed on whether climate change is real, and has it never been proven that the Earth truly is warming, if it was, it most surely be due to the inaction from the left at a most critical time,” said Dr. W. R. Scrued, Political Science, Liberty University. “Not that human action could affect the Earth’s temperature in any way.”

Others take a more spiritual view on so-called climate change.

“If the good Lord meant for us to go outside in the middle of the day, air conditioning woulda never been invented,” shouted Brent Melanin through the driver’s side window of his Ford Decapitator. “Anyways, the Sun is just doin’ what it’s s’posed to. Makin’ the Earth warm.”

Democrat-influenced historians from liberal universities often blame the lack of meaningful climate change legislation on abuse of the filibuster and corporate influence on politics. An overwhelming number of our readers disagree.

According to a FoxNews.com poll, seventy-nine percent of voters blame the democrats for climate change, while eighty-two percent of voters feel that the Earth is not getting any warmer because it snowed that one time last winter.