FLASH FICTION *The Things We Do For Love*

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The Things We Do For Love
R.A Goli

He smells a bit funny tonight.
Sniff.
It doesn’t really matter as he is already taking off his torn t-shirt. Watching him undress makes me feel tingly between my legs. I move forward to help him unzip his jeans. He rips my t-shirt off in a desperate act of passion and it makes me moan in anticipation. He starts to kiss my neck and slips a hand up my skirt. He nibbles at my skin gently, licking and tasting, then he bites. Hard. I can feel my flesh tear and my own blood spill across my neck and shoulder. The pain is intense and I let out a warbled cry, my hands grasping his hair to pull him back. Tears prick my eyes and my breath quickens, but I resist the urge to move away from him. I love him. This is the only way we can be together.

I’m just glad that he doesn’t want to eat my brains.

He pushes me back onto the bed and then scrambles on top of me. I slide my hands up his chest, the skin mottled gray but mostly unblemished, and I look into his cloudy eyes, as he chews and swallows a piece of me. I wonder where he will bite next, how much I will have to endure before I can be with him. Be like him.

The door bursts open and a shotgun blast rings through the small room. I scream, as his head breaks apart and I am splattered in the gore and fragments of my beloved’s skull. I sit up, wiping the blood from my eyes, my face stinging from the shards of bone splintering my skin. I look down; he is still. Most of his skull is gone, his face torn away, leaving him unrecognizable. But, he smells so good. I pick up a limp arm and begin gnawing at his flesh.

I tear a piece off with my teeth and let it roll over my tongue before I begin to chew. It tastes better than the most succulent steak I have ever eaten, his blood sweeter than any red wine jus. I hear the click of the shotgun barrel as it’s reloaded and I look up, but my vision is blurry, everything has a yellow tinge. I put a hand to my chest and realize that my heart has stopped.

The man says, “I’m sorry pumpkin,” but it comes out in heavy sobs.

That’s when my slowing brain puts the pieces together and I realize who it is.

“Daddy, no,” I say as he raises the shotgun, aiming at my head. I put my hand up as though it can stop a bullet. I see it splatter in a thousand crimson pieces, in slow motion. And then everything is black.

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Drops

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Drops

By Lee Blevins

The first drop fell during a Buster Keaton comedy at the arthouse theater in the city nearest their town. Bertrand felt the cool plop of a single drop of liquid upon the edge of his hairline. He raised his hand and brushed the water off and chalked it up to leakage or spittle or maybe premeditated hooligansim and continued watching the film.

The second drop fell during fourth period the following day. Bertrand had placed a slide upside down a projector. One of the less anarchic students then pointed out the error. Bertrand was turning the slide around when the second drop fell onto the transparent sheet. The fluid ate through the word Indochina. Continue reading

Flicker

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Flicker

By Claire Davon

The candles flickered, once, twice and then burst to life, surging up in a synchronized flare of yellow and sulfur.  They cast their shadows across the altar in forms that to the untrained eye appeared random.

They were not.

The flame sought the stale air, using it to gutter higher. Although it had no eyes, it could see; no ears but it could hear. No mouth but it knew the taste of flesh.

A human was coming from the heavy slap of feet, one after the other; after so long another being had found this place of worship. It had been that human once, come to make offerings to the terrible, magnificent altar of skulls and smoke and power. It had dared to invade this sanctuary and had paid this price. Then it had waited for the next one to come. It had not expected the decades that followed.

There was a faint squeak, a terrified high pitched noise. The human did not come alone. A paltry offering, to bring only a rat, but it would serve. Continue reading

Drink, Eat… Be Merry?

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DRINK, EAT…BE MERRY?

by Tim J. Finn

Brett Ralston tapped the Smartphone in the pocket of his parka and silenced its chirping. His latest friend with benefits failed to comprehend his no-call directive also applied to text messages. Her spectacular bedroom skills stayed him from booting her taut buttocks to the curb. He should be enjoying her prowess instead of supervising a body dump in the middle of a hazardous waste site. Ralston resolved to leave grown up virgins alone, despite the appeal of acting as ‘deflowerer’. Paula Downey proved to be too stupid and too Catholic to prevent her problematic pregnancy.

Adam Edwards leaned on his shovel and tugged a gin bottle from his coat. He gulped half a dozen mouthfuls and offered the bottle to his fellow digger. Continue reading

Die.xlsx

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Die.xlsx

By Chad A. McClendon

Bruce Kelley ran his fingers through his dust broom thin hair as he opened his corporate email Monday morning. His pants were still damp and cold from being pulled out of the dryer too quickly, the coffee burn hurt his mouth from earlier in the morning, and his boss was already complaining. He scanned his emails in order of importance, and opened one labeled Urgent Response Required; he scanned the contents of the missive and downloaded the spreadsheet attachment.

It was a report he was not familiar with, and he tried clicking on the tabs of data at the bottom of the sheet. He clicked, whispering at the sheet for not responding. His pointer on the screen turned into a spinning loading wheel, and he crossed his legs under his desk.

“Darn thing.”

He noticed a flashing icon near the ribbon and saw a warning alert. Warning, sheet contains macros. Click here to enable. Bruce pointed a finger accusingly and clicked his mouse determinedly. Continue reading