Flash Fiction

Trying something new this week! Here’s a 100 word flash story based on a photo prompt via the #FridayFictioneers.

The Memory House

It’s our first kiss. You stand on the porch in new jeans, and your hands in your pockets. I laugh at how nervous you are. Or it’s our wedding day. You come and steal a kiss through the window. This time you’re not nervous. Or am I pregnant with our first child? My stomach is round and huge, and you rub at it laughing, for good luck you say as we sit on the steps.

I wait for the time machine to stop spinning. Always, it brings me back here. I hope this time I find you waiting.


Flash Fiction

Based on a challenge by John Wiswell. Time to flex those flash writing muscles! It’s been a while.

Warning: contains profanity.


I’ve only been in this perfectly nice hotel for ten minutes and I’m already naked with blood on the floor. It’s going to be to hell getting that mess out of the carpet. I bet the cleaning lady’s going to shit a brick, but so are these poor assholes when they find out the truth.

The timer’s blinking on screen, counting down the minutes. I have 9 left before the silicone dries out, my reserve batteries fail. 8 minutes to find out whether or not this gamble pays out, or I’m dead. I’ve always liked to gamble.

Amateurs. I can’t believe they used a screwdriver to wrench me free. I bet it’s not even sterilized. I suspect my personality chip might be damaged. Mother fucker. Maybe it is. I don’t remember whether or not I liked to swear. They’re lucky that this far from my flesh bod, I no longer have control of its lips.

It was one sweet bod, that Betty.

My sensors are picking up a vibration. Another body on the floor. Great! They want to do a transfer, they’re not as stupid as I thought! If these boys get caught, its going to be for theft, not murder, but man, that’s one fucking ugly piece of flesh.

These scanners aren’t as good as eyes, but even I can tell it’s ghastly. The man’s face reminds me of a potato, with the pock marks and peeling skin to show for it. Did its old owner not take care of it? Disgusting. I bet they found this flesh bod at the morgue, ready to be recycled or pulped.

I’d have settled for a good old fashioned robot chassy. For god’s sake! I’m not even a man! Not that it matters, my first flesh rotted away centuries ago, but human thinking is hard to deprogram.

5 minutes. Someone grabs my chip off the floor.

I wake up jammed in an unfamiliar cranium. The timer’s still going. 3 minutes. I hate this part. New wiring is always a challenge. I’m going to walk like a drunken fool for days. Ahh there, connected with the eye sockets. Blink. Focus.

They’re trying to jam their buddy’s chip into Betty’s socket. Good luck. I can see their hands trembling. I bet it’s their first time. That’s a five million dollar piece of flesh, they’re stitching up like a rag doll. It’s the best body I’ve ever spent time in. We had some good times, me and Betty, brief as it was. One minute.

I stand up on jello legs, taste the alcohol on potato face’s breath, the faint taste of fermentation and decay. I stagger out the door. If one of those boys push me I’ll fall flat on my face, but they don’t bother coming after me. Their eyes are on Betty, her long smooth legs, and tight ass. She’s starting to come to her senses.

Zero. The police are late. I check the timer. There, only by half a second. The elevator bursts open, and I see them rushing past me and I press back against the hallway. Those assholes in the hotel room have no idea. Potato face breaks into a grin, as I hear a ping, notifying me that money’s been wired into my personal account. Reward money for Betty’s return. News travels fast over the police feeds.

It was almost too easy. All it took was slipping a tip that a high quality flesh bod was staying somewhere insecure. Someone was bound to be tempted. Auto programed a prerecorded call to the police the minute my chip touched air. I’m mother fucking brilliant, I tell you. It’s worked every time.

I wonder how long I can keep this scam going. In the meantime, I’m wiring the cleaning lady a big fat tip. I doubt the carpet’s salvageable.


Flash Fiction

By popular demand, Toby and Madame La Mort have returned! Read Fair Game if you want to know what happened to Toby last time. This is my Writers Weights: Tension Challenge exercise for this week.

The challenge: write a scene of 1000 words or less that uses two or more methods to create tension. The theme for this week is: silk.

Beating the Odds
by T.S. Bazelli

Madame La Mort plucked a stuffed pink piggy off of it’s hook with a spindly hand. She offered it to Toby.

“Don’t cry, little one. Here, hold on to this if it makes you feel better.”

She reminded Toby of his school headmistress. She pronounced her words one by one, as if she had all the time in the world.

Toby snatched the toy out of her long fingers and it made a cheerful oinking noise as he squeezed it tight.

“Do you want to try another game?”

“Yes, but not this one.” Toby wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. Monsieur La Vie, threw up his hands and waved them off in frustration.

“Of course. Pick any game in the carnival, and we’ll play it.” Mme. La Mort pushed a wiry pair of glasses up her nose and followed a step behind as Toby struggled to make his decision.

He’d learned his lesson. This time, he wanted to pick a game where he had the advantage. He appraised his new opponent out of the corner of his eye. She was more than twice as tall as Toby. The ball throwing contest was out. She had longer arms than Toby. The wack-a-mole would not do. She was older than his mother. Puzzle games he would surely lose.

Lights blinked golden yellow, and red, and green as they walked nearly the length of the carnival. Toby stared in every direction, seeking out a game he was sure he could win. Shadows began to fall over the carnival, and he knew he was supposed to meet his mother and father again soon.

A crowd of children with icing smeared faces, and silly paper cones on their heads went running past. A birthday party! It should have cheered him up. Toby loved birthday parties.

His eyes followed where they had come from, wistful. Beneath a covered picnic area, paper plates and colorful streamers had been abandoned once the cake had been eaten.

Toby kicked at a ball of wrapping paper. It came to rest against a wooden wall, where an equine shape had been pinned up. He jumped up and down, and pointed.

“Pin the tail on the donkey?” he asked Madame La Mort. He’d won the game at every birthday party he had memory of, and he had a good memory. The elder woman frowned slightly, and he knew he had the advantage. Toby grinned as he squeezed the plush piggy tight. He’d already decided to name him Herbert.

“Very well, ” she replied, and plucked a paper tail off the wall with her long fingernails. She passed one to Toby and reached into a deep pocket, to produce two silk scarves: one purple, and the other blue. Toby chose the blue one.

“I’ll go first.” Toby fixed the scarf loosely over his eyes, careful to leave a little space near the bridge of his nose. He was good at the game, but he wanted to be sure. Madame La Mort spun him around in a circle, and he feigned dizziness as he stepped to the left and the right in a zigzag. Out of the bottom of the scarf, he could see his target clearly. He was careful to tack his tail just a little off the mark to make it look authentic.

When he was done, he removed the scarf and admired his work.

Madame La Mort pursed her lips. “Well done, Toby.”

“Let me help you with your scarf,” he offered. She let him tie the purple silk tightly around her head. Toby fussed to be certain that her eyes were completely covered. Then he spun her round, the requisite three times, and two more for good measure. She tottered slightly off course.

Toby willed her to go right, but she went left. Toby willed her to go left, but she went right. She headed straight towards the X painted boldly on the donkey’s rump.

Toby shouted out in despair when her tack hit the mark exactly. There was no way she could have cheated. Madame La Mort pulled the scarf down to her neck. She did not look one bit surprised.

“I know you cheated, but I never lose at games, Toby. Let this be another lesson for you today.” Her face split into a wide, thin lipped, grin. She plucked the piggy out of Toby’s hands. “And no, you can’t take it with you.” She turned her back and walked away.

Toby realized he’d rather be at school.