Flash Fiction by Steve Erdmann

Apophis Factor

“Do you come from a land down under? Where women glow and men plunder? Can’t you hear, can’t you hear the thunder? You better run, you better take cover…” Land Down Under, song by Men at Work.

April 12, 2036: 9:00 a.m. Pacific Standard Time. The White House.

Jason Cornet, flanked by two Secret Service agents, briefcase marked Top Secret handcuffed to his wrist, was escorted into the oval office of the President of the United States. The Director of The Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency (DARPA), Jason opened the briefcase and presented the document titled “Beyond Stage Five: Final Deflection and Abortive Analysis/ Apo phis”.

The President, surrounded by equally important “Need to Know” dignitaries, pensively thumbed through the pages. After a lugubriously and intensely somber period of deep silence, he slowly raised his head to speak:

“Just recap the high points,” he requested in a blank stare of disbelief. The President had been under continuous counsel from multiple government and private sectors the day before and showed obvious signs of weariness and strain. Cornet, hands folded in front of his stomach, handcuffs now removed from his wrist, began in rote to recite the particulars:

“ 99942 Apo phis – discovered April, 2004, Class C asteroid - 25-million ton object – about the size of the Empire State Building - projected to pass within the 18,800 mile range next to earth tomorrow – has eluded analysis and procedure to become Code Name Public Enemy Number One.”

“My God, how can this be?” asked the President incredulously. Jason continued speaking; face viscerally drained and whitened, viscously hiding the terror within him:

“Multiple ‘Perfect Storm’ factors: previous passes to earth encountered universal hazards: Sun Spot activity – Solar Maxima – the worst in the history of mankind - insidiously decapitated accurate measurement of inflection in the keyhole – plus crash encounters with earth’s geosynchronous and communication satellites 22,000 to 30,000 miles out from earth in orbit; and, as you are aware, sir, the terrorist E-bomb attack over our country and in outer space last week; mega-devices greater than our GBU-31 or our MK-84 Form Flux Compress Generators ……….” The President, face rubescent and ruddled by a rush of blood, heart pounding almost audibly, cut him short: “Damage assessment!”

Jason, now becoming visibly nauseous, shifted his eyes to the side and back center again in an almost “I can’t believe this, but here we go” mode: “Equal ant to 65,000 Hiroshima atomic bombs, 9000 foot crater, 2.5 mile wide, 70-foot tsunami waves, millions of human beings killed and many more maimed or damaged, winds: 25 miles per hour over the globe, earthquakes in the 7.0 range – it will hit the earth at 11 miles per second; The Anatoly Perminov Parameter: the crust of the earth will be split from the North Sea to the Black Sea and create a new continent disfiguring Russia, Germany, Poland…..” With tears in his eyes, the President interrupted again, his Adams apple groped in pain: “Where will you be?”

Jason gave a penetrating, body-shaking sigh and announced: “With my family, sir. I would like to be with them if anywhere, sir; I have kept it secret from them.” The President solemnly and slowly nodded.

It was a beautiful spring day on the 13^th of April, 2036: clear blue sky, 80-degree weather, the Cornet family selected a hillside and oak tree portrait that overlooked the blue-green forest and valley below, scent of wild flowers and the robust aromatic countryside in their nostrils. The sounds of wildlife and animals were suspiciously absent, however. They spread a picnic blanket and placed food before themselves. Three-year-old Phoebe Cornet played and chased her balloon until she became angry at its antics: she brought it to her father:

“Daddy, pop this balloon, I don’t like it anymore; it’s mean to me!”

 

 

Steve Erdmann, having spent a lifetime living and struggling in the ways and styles of a born and bred Midwestern, now wants to share the experiences of fellow St. Louisans and those of the Mississippi Basin. In the past, he has attended Washington and Webster Universities, and has written on the paranormal, and is highly concerned with the Divorce Racket and government conspiracies and has written for Our Sunday Visitor, Probe the Unknown, Liberty, Gnostica News, The Green Egg, Beyond Reality, Necrology Shorts, The UFO Enigma, UN-X Magazine and several others. He currently belongs to the Carondelet Historical Society. He can be reached through this editor or at dissenterdisinter@yahoo.com, independenterdmann@gmail.com or P.O. Box 18863, Maryville Gardens Station, St. Louis, Mo. 63118. You can become a Friend on his Facebook Timeline www.facebook.com/#!/stephen.erdmann1.

Flash Fiction by Sarah Flint

The Time Witch and the Forgetting Wizard

‘You’re mischievous’ he said, putting his hand between her legs. In the corner of the Friday filled pub she laughed into his eyes and they made a date for a date. In the Friday filled pub he grinned at her keenness and sexy tights. ‘Up for some fun?’ she asked, rubbing against his long legs. She wanted to purr. She watched his hands. They aroused her.

 

Their grins were from Cheshire as they went through the orange and black night to his accommodating accommodation. ‘Just a bit of fun’, they told themselves. ‘We can have our cake and eat it’, they told themselves.

 

In the muddled bedroom they got naked, laughing. They had careless sex carefully. They kept their thoughts out of the room and their hands on each other. He watched his face and she smiled into his eyes. They delighted in their greed.

 

She saw the beginning and remembered the lopsided grin. He saw the middle and remembered the fun. They tucked away the hurt, disappointment and the betrayal under the pillow. She was a Time Witch - she could rewind time and stop it before it got to the painful end. He was a Wizard who could forget anything and everything.

 

But the feathers from the pillow escaped and tickled her nose and irritated her eyes. A huge sneeze blew away the pillow and the hurt and betrayal and disappointment came flying out. Time unwound to the bitter end. This was an out-of-date cake and they had no more spells to cast.

 

 

 

Sarah Flint is based in the south west of the Uk where she writes poetry and flash fiction that sometimes appears on the Web. (She hasn't the patience to write anything longer).

Flash Fiction by William G. Davies, Jr.

"No scoreboard, no electric, nothing. And they still charge ya'! Ya' believe that?!" The prematurely bald man said, looking ahead at the woman standing at the entrance behind a folding table.

The other man shrugged his shoulders.

"That's Jewel Fromme. Ya' know the striker's mom. What the hell's his number? The kid's a scoring machine." He said.

"Five."

"Yeah. That's it."

"Good evening gentlemen." Mrs. Fromme said.

"Fine player that number five, might have college potential, I mean college for sure. Just might include some soccer too." The other man said.

"Why thank you. Jim's a hard worker. Don't you live over on Salford Street? Mr.?"

"Bob Shutt. Bob please. Yep, 2034. Five years now."

"You keep a nice place Mr. Shutt, I mean Bob. I like those shutters. Are they real wood?"

"Yes they are, thank you. Thank you very much."

"That'll be three dollars each."

"Who's playin', the Barcelona Dragons? Ya's don't even have a scoreboard." The prematurely bald-headed man handed her a ten dollar bill.

The woman handed him back three singles and four quarters. "Sorry 'bout the change, enjoy the game."

The two men sat on the nearly empty bleachers.

"Freeze your goddamned ass off on these things too."

"That's a bitch 'bout her daughter." Bob said.

"What."

"Ya' didn't hear 'bout that? Her daughter was killed by a drunk driver. Well, she was inna' coma awhile but died."

"How old was she?"

"I dunno', seventeen or somethin'."

The prematurely bald-headed man fingered the coins in his pocket.

A whistle sounded from the field, the game was about to begin.

William G. Davies, Jr. is 58 years old and considers himself a capable wordsmith.

He shares life with his wife of 38 years, Theresa.

William has published poems in Jellyfish Whispers and Pyrokinection
as well as the Cortland Review, The Blue Lyra Review and others.

Flash Fiction by Louis Marvin

Cold Cut Anger

Up pops a man from his ballgame. He is intent on having a salami sandwich. He gets to the refrigerator door, looks at the magnets and school lunch menu and family pictures and smiles.

Inside the refrigerator the familiar yellow pack is upside down. He pulls it out, turns it over, and his happiness is replaced with anger.

“What the fuck is this?”

It's bologna. And the bologna feels his anger.

“She knows I wanted salami.”

The bologna is smart enough to know that he is what he is. He cannot change himself into another cold cut, and he is in no way inferior to salami.

When the man looked in the pantry for liverwurst, and even handled the peanut butter, he could have latched onto this. But, his self esteem was intact.

He was at least out of the fridge. He looked at the man and saw him shrug. He went back to the fridge and got the bread and mustard.

Believe in yourself, even if they say you're bologna and they want something else.

Don't forget, bologna is good too.

 

 

Louis Marvin:  on this pacific island with chinese girls, born burbank, lived phoenix, loves the island teacher, coach, ex-soldier, writer/artist, tennis champion

 

Flash Fiction by Henry Brasater

LUNCH WITH MYSELF
                                                   

The undergraduate sipped his coffee at my table while I finished lunch in the Chestnut Village retirement community café. After introductions and his apologies for asking to share my table because seating was at a premium, we talked nonstop about his uncertain future; his options, hopes and dreams. From the moment he sat down, I felt discomfort increasing until I realized that he reminded me of me at his age. I became speechless, remembering my dashed dreams and hopes; wondering if the same was in store for him. Suddenly, I was gripped with terror and became speechless. The last thing that I saw on earth was me, as last month’s attack revisited my heart.

 

 

 

Henry Brasater's stories appear in ezines,print magazines and anthologies and his latest ebook is "The Upheaval," published by DHG Press.

Flash Fiction by Lela Marie De La Garza

   TIMING

     Parker lay on the canvas for a full eight count before getting slowly to his feet. This was his last round. IF he didn’t knock Huxtable out now the fight was over for him. Swaying gently he worked out the logistics, then brought his left hand up, jabbed twice harmlessly, crossed it with the right that was still hard, still fast. His legs were going, his breath was gone—but Huxtable was down, and he stayed down.

     The bell rang. Parker felt his hand grabbed, held high. He felt his manager’s arms around him. Words came from far away: “Great fight…comeback…Wednesday week…Freeman Coliseum…Butterfly Joe…odds…”

     He managed to shake Flannigan off and stand up. “No. No more. I’m done.”

     “What!? But you never looked better. I’m telling you, this is your chance—“

     “I’m telling you it’s not. I had one fight, one round, one punch left. I used them up. That’s all there is. You think I want to end up like that?” He gestured toward the elderly creature approaching them.

     He was not quite walking, not quite staggering. A patch fitted over one eye. The nose had been broken so many times as to be only a blob in a crater of welts. Both ears were cobwebbed scar tissue. He came close enough to recognize Parker and began hurrying, in an erratic way, greeting them with a toothless grin. “Kid! You won! Used the combination I taught you.” His voice was a husky croak.

     “Yeah—it worked good.”

     “So when’s your next fight.”

     “No more.”

     The torn face was bewildered. “Whaddaya mean no more? You got a chance at the big stuff now.”

     “I keep telling him,” Flannigan said. “He don’t listen.”

     “There’s a time to fight,” Parker said calmly. “There’s a time to stop.” He put an arm around the old man’s shoulders. “Come on Pop. Now it’s time to go home.”

Lela Marie De La Garza was born in Denver CO. in 1943 while her father was serving in WWII. She curretly resides in San Antonio, TX with three and a half cats.

Flash Fiction by Denny E. Marshall

 

Mice Of Mars


Chapter 1

The craft lands on a small grass field with several buildings. The hatch opens and the aliens explore the surrounding area. They see life forms moving about and head in their direction. They follow them into a small doorway in one of the buildings. Once they catch up to them, one of the aliens greets the life forms. The life forms are similar to the aliens in size and appearance thought the head and tail are different. The life forms they encounter are common mice.

Chapter 2

Soon the aliens and the mice are carrying on a dialog. The visitors from space and their new friends seemed to have a lot in common. Thou the mice lacked the communication skills that aliens have. All was going well until the aliens noticed a large giant walk by in the distant. The aliens are terrified of the giant. The mice seem quite cautious, though not fearful. They are “humans” the mice explain. The mice inform the aliens to keep a safe distance. Soon one of the mice runs by the human. You could hear a female human screaming and see her running away. The aliens are impressed by the control the mice have over the humans. The aliens even more impressed the next day when the humans lay out a large box of a meal.

Chapter 3

Later that night after the humans have fallen asleep, the mice and the aliens feed on the meal. The aliens stunned by the large size of the meal. The humans must really be scared of the mice. The aliens noticed the text on the meal box said warning. The aliens have no idea what warning is. Whatever it is, it is delicious and all the mice and aliens stuff themselves. After the meal, they enjoy some conversation. After that, the aliens are ready to depart. They thank their guests and promise to return. Then they make there way to the their craft. Soon the ship takes off into the night sky.

Chapter 4

It is not long into their return voyage when all aboard start to feel sick. The crew is having a hard time controlling the craft. The problems seem to multiply. They notice the uninhabited red planet they passed earlier and head straight towards it. They would have preferred an inhabited planet. The emergency landing did not go well. The good news they are still alive. The bad news the ship is heavily damaged and the entire crew is very sick. That night and the next few days all the crewmembers are dead except about a dozen. The surviving crew tries to make the best of situation. First, they adjust their breathing system to the atmosphere of the planet. Then gut the ship and make it into living quarters. They add rooms and buildings from the discarded materials gutted from the ship as the years go by. However, the crewmembers only lasted a few decades before they run out of food and water.

Chapter 5

(Four hundred years later.)
They can see the surface of Mars. The landing craft is slowly approaching. Soon they touch down. Captain Tanner will be the first human to touch the surface of Mars. Tanner walks down the landing stairs and cameras of all sorts are at the ready when the surface is touched. The sun is shining the horizon a reddish brown. After a celebration of walking around and jumping, Tanner notices a reflection off in the distance. The object is about hundred meters away to the north. From here, it looks like a shiny object she thought. As the rest of the crew arrives, the captain points out the object to them. The group slowly walks over to the area.

Chapter 6

Back on Earth, the news is everywhere. No matter the media, the story is the same. The headlines all over the world are the same. “Evidence of life found on Mars”

 

 

 

Denny E. Marshall has had poetry recently published and rejected.