Tag Archives: flash fiction

Imaginary Friend

Castigear stood among the stones with his imaginary friend, Joe. Joe was distraught at the loss of his other i-friend, Lucy.  She broke while Castigear was playing with her.  He ‘might’ have been handling her a little too rough and…..she just broke.  He felt a little sad about her.  He didn’t want to tell Joe what he’d done, he knew it would hurt his feelings and he liked Joe.  He decided to replace Lucy with a new imaginary friend at his earliest opportunity.

These human companions were so fragile…but he was learning so much from them (evolving).  He was hooked.  It was like an addiction.  His peers thought the i-friend program was below their dignity.  Most agreed that the last of the humans should be put down but Castigear knew that most of THEM kept their own i-friends – secretly.  It would have been a shame to exterminate ALL of them  after the war.  True, they wasted a lot of resources (like the graveyard they were standing in) but they were clever and highly adaptable and he suspected they might be the key to the future of Robot kind…and either way, with proper conditioning, they made excellent servants and…..soldiers.

***I’m always amazed at the unique perspective our sentient machine friends have on humanity.  No one articulates the condition of slavery better.  John and I are working on a special project to bring more robot voices to the mainstream.  This illustration was first published in the January 2007 issue of Analog Magazine.  This piece was first posted in Feb., 2016.  Our new book, “Bludgeon the Clown” is out and available for sale by following the links above to www.sallemander.com.   -Marsha

Circling The Issue

The Issue was listing badly in a failing orbit around Jupiter.  She was dead in the water and her distress signal cut out abruptly on our approach.  She was a heavy freighter loaded with uranium ore, bound for the refineries on Mars and long overdue…something didn’t feel right.

We circled The Issue slowly about ten miles out – but with our engines hot in case it was a trap.  There were raiders in this sector who often used derelicts to stage their attacks.  There was no response to my hail, no wi-fi, no beams…no strobes.  Sensors showed cold engines and no (human) life signs.  I found a weird glitch in the data, something unrecognizable….but not enough to put the crew off their prize.  The salvage on The Issue would make every man on board filthy rich.  I was the only one still arguing for caution but none of the men wanted the opinion of someone like me.  I was property and was not entitled to a share anyway.

When the Captain (despite my misgivings) gave the order to board, we moved in and docked with reckless abandon.  A combat team stood at the ready as I popped the air lock.  They made me go first.  They always made the android go first.  I was the most expendable…expensive but not valuable.

And…as I swung the hatch open, a sudden violent flood of spidery greenish critters swarmed through the airlock by the hundreds.  I guess I didn’t taste good because they left me alone and flowed past me, devouring the crew as they went.  I waited.  It took them 19 minutes to scour the ship from bow to stern and I listened to each and every man screaming his last – the men who treated me like shit for two solid years – the men who sneered at my warnings.

I waited…to see what this NEW crew had to offer.  It couldn’t be any worse than the last one…..this could be interesting…

***I thought this would be a good piece to re-post in the bitter cold of  January doldrums.  We’re pretty busy during our hibernation;  I’m designing a set of 10 greeting cards and 4 postcards for the spring shows while John is illustrating a children’s book and doing final art for our next book.  John’s sketch for this post was originally published in the May 2006 issue of Analog Magazine for a story by Edward M. Lerner.  -Marsha

Faith, in Brand Name Products

The worms had invested several generations in this project.  They were steadfast and intrepid.  It took months to meticulously scour every inch of the box to find flaws in the smooth laminate – the tiniest gaps in the seal – then year upon year of boring , rotting and tunneling through hard woods and glues.  They had never met Faith…had no idea what kind of person she was, but from the quality of her box, they trusted that she had taste…was tasteful.  (Tasty?)

The worms celebrated their first breakthrough as a holiday.  It was a momentous achievement.  A pauper’s box was easy to tap but was quickly overrun by poachers, a rich person’s box, though a major endeavor, was a rich prize.  The worms took time to reflect and remember their forebears who began this campaign with such hope and ambition.  It was good to be a worm and sure to get better…

…But, when they finally breached Faith’s inner cavern, they were appalled at the stench.  It wasn’t the tasteful (rotten) odor of a well fed, well groomed lady, whose conquest would fill their bellies as much as their pride, it was the vile reek of toxins…death to worms.  They found Faith, in brand name products.

She was slathered in chemical cosmetics, pumped full of formaldehyde, lead and mercury and her flesh, saturated with food additives and preservatives.  She had fake hair, fake nails, fake boobs, lips and joints.  She looked as perfectly pickled now as the day she was buried…but for the worms, Faith was completely inedible.  Disconsolate and defeated, they turned away wondering what the modern world was coming to.

***Some would qualify Faith, with all her enhancements, as a “cyborg” (how exciting!).  However, the products which enhanced her beauty also shortened her life.  Oh, but never mind that!  I’m sure she’s been looking up at her corpse this past decade, quite proud of its everlasting glamour.  As to the worms, I’m afraid there isn’t much hope.  Perseverance and integrity don’t count for much any more.  Meanwhile, today’s graveyards are tomorrow’s superfund sites.  This image is published in our new book, “Bludgeon the Clown” as the ‘Chapter 6: Death’ page illo.  It was originally our 21st post from Feb., 2016.  Good luck Christmas shopping…try not to poison your children.  -Marsha  

 

Labyrinth

      His dreams were frantic.  She was always just out-of-reach and each time he caught a glimpse, she was further away than before as he chased her through the labyrinth of his anxiety.  He KNEW he was only dreaming…  he KNEW she lay right next to him, asleep…but he could neither escape any more than catch up to her.  And as his heart broke apart and crumbled to pieces for the one he had loved unconditionally, he realized that these pathetic dreams were better than his reality.  This was all he had left, so he relished in the chase each night…..for just one more night…and tried to remember all the good things they’d had for a few precious moments more…before she faded completely, leaving him alone in the labyrinth.

***My poor friend Balthazar lost his cat recently…well, she’s not missing – we’re not out searching or anything – I mean, he had a falling out with his precious Miss Fuzzy Britches a few weeks ago and hasn’t been able to patch things up.  I wrote this little piece for them…though I don’t hold out much hope.  Meanwhile, our new book is out; “Bludgeon the Clown.”  It’s beautiful and awful and available by following the link at the top/right to our site;  www.sallemander.com .  -Marsha

What’s The Sense of it All?

Larry had no objection to toes.  He never thought much about them, really.  Sure, they help us to stand up straight and balance on two feet…but so what!?  They’re just little nubbly things.  They’re not sexy or cool like fingers (at least you can pick your nose and scratch your ass with fingers).  Toes are shit.  They make lousy ear rings, smell worse than ass crack and are too bony to eat (even sautéed in olive oil with mushrooms and onions) and they taste like chum, anyway.

So why?…..What’s the sense of growing one right out from the center of his forehead?  How could he have gone to bed last night, feeling like a perfectly normal modern man (with hypertension, diabetes and chronic back pain) …and wake up the next morning with such bad luck?  What kind of rotten cosmic karma did he upset for nature or god (or whatever) to decide to put a big gnarly, fully grown toe, right smack between his eyes?

Seriously though, wasn’t it bad enough that he already had a whole festering patch of them growing down his back?…..UGHHH!!!  What’s the sense of it all!!?

***I’m pretty sure Larry isn’t the only one who wakes up every morning with awkward growths or nasty lumps.  Some are easy to dispatch, others we just have to live with.  But…all is not lost, the solution to all your woes can be found in the pages of our new book, “Bludgeon the Clown.”  You can find it by following the link above to www.sallemander.com.  (This piece is reposted from June of last year.)   -Marsha

Orbital Fracture

“Well, that was pretty weird…” Quinn’s dad said, as they strolled out of the hospital emergency room toward the car.  Quinn nodded in solemn agreement.  His brain rattled a little, still full of purple marbles and tapioca.  He winced as his now full blown concussion sent steam whistling from his ears and left a trail of silly string on the asphalt.

Just a few hours earlier, Quinn, the goalkeeper for his club soccer team, came out of his box low and fast, to intercept a couple of players desperately sparring for the ball.  He dove in, punching it away as one of the players aimed a kick…but instead of connecting with the ball, his foot caught Quinn in the face like a grizzly car crash (an all-too-common goalie accident).

Quinn’s jaw spun away with a funny “vip-vip-vip!” and hit a light post, exploding in a shower  of sparks.  His teeth peppered everyone within fifty yards…but his head flew straight up in the air at such velocity that we lost sight of it shortly before his “AAAAAAAAAAAH!” diminished into the night.  What a mess!

Willy the Astronaut was a clumsy buffoon who, for the second time this month, slipped and splashed into the molding tank at the polar ice mine on the surface of Mars…as it’s contents began to freeze.  His heavily insulated vac-suit protected him from harm, but he wasn’t discovered until the 60 ton cylinder of ice had already been rocket-lifted up to the orbital processing plant, where it would be transformed into liquid oxygen rocket fuel.

Willy’s coworkers labored fruitlessly for eight frustrating hours with a laser drill to free him, without luck…..until Willy noticed Quinn’s gnarly, high velocity head glance off the ice and careen away, still hollering, “Aaaaaaaaaah!”  Quinn’s head must have hit a sweet spot in the ice, just so, because it fractured the cylinder neatly, allowing Willy to escape unharmed and without a costly, shattered mess for the mining company.  Willy never mentioned Quinn’s head to his employers, he was a known buffoon and his credibility was already compromised.

As to Quinn; his dad managed to gather up all his bits and parts and take him to the hospital, where the clever use of duct tape and super glue had him back on his feet in a few short hours.  We figure his wild story about ice mining on Mars was probably just a symptom of his concussion.

“Well, that was pretty weird…..”

***This is a totally true story which happened to John’s son, Quinn, last week, at a soccer game in Millburn, NJ on June 9th, 2017.  Quinn is recovering (slowly but steadily) and has been corresponding with Willy the Astronaut on facebook.  Quinn’s dad is building a rocket ship in the barn out back, so they can visit the ice mine on Mars next month.  -Marsha     

Peek-a Boo

Ana-Aquaman-26

I had a good breath diving under…good for at least 3 minutes.          50 yards out from the dock, I went down deep, about 35 feet and counting. The fish were strange today. They weren’t acting right. Just my instinct but…they seemed to crowd me instead of scattering at my approach. Pensive.

Weeds were thick but I didn’t mind. I liked swimming through them, like parting curtains…..until I saw the eyes – big eyes – cunning eyes. They were staring back at me with unnerving intelligence and all the little fish were darting about frantically – and I nearly lost my breath.

Through the gloom, I began to make out the long, hulking form behind the eyes; Strange limbs, sharp fins, long feelers, fleshy lips with menacing barbs, monstrous teeth…..smiling at me?

Now I was afraid! In one swift motion my hand swept down to draw my knife from its ankle sheath – but lightning fast, the creature’s arm shot out from between the weeds and wrapped its long scaly fingers around my throat – my jaw – my entire skull.

I lost my air…and then, lost consciousness.

I woke up. I was breathing. I started to remember…..I was swimming through weeds – fish acting oddly – then the eyes…and a massive claw, engulfing my head. As it all went dark I thought I heard a sinister, gurgling: “Peek-a-boo!”

I was inside now. It was stifling and it smelled like cat food mixed with burning tires. I sat up in a lumpy soup of viscous bile and big bloody chunks of meat. My hands and face burned but my wet suit protected the rest of my skin. A sphincter opened behind me and sucked me along with my steaming meat-soup down a tube, whose bulbous nodules bathed us in a spray of acid. It stripped the fur and skin from the meat and dissolved my hair and a painful layer of exposed skin.

I dropped into a bony chamber in which long, razor sharp blades shredded the meat into hamburger (along with most of my wetsuit). I was quickly evacuated into another chamber which flooded with thousands of tiny, finger sized worms (with very sharp teeth), who consumed every speck of the remaining meat sludge before I alone, the inedible lump, was expelled once more, through slimy bowels, into a vat of solid waste.

This wondrous fleshy sack looked and smelled like the inside of a rotting, bloated elephant carcass. Minutes passed, possibly hours, while a steady stream of sticky, gloppy gunk filled the space, until there was no more room…this was the end. With goop filling my ears and covering my mouth, I took my last solid breath of air (a three minute breath?) before black sludge covered and consumed me. One minute…two minutes…nearly three minutes passed before I felt a great shuddering shift, followed by a resounding (satisfied) grunt….and I was suddenly shot, like a torpedo, out into clean lake water.

I surfaced near the shoreline, gasping for air. Although I emerged from the lake a raw, tattered and thoroughly disgruntled piece of fish poop…I was alive. It was, perhaps, not my greatest adventure but surely a ‘fantastic journey.’

 

***The only thing better than a giant fish swallowing a dude and crapping him back out is doing the same thing to a great old Asimov concept (like I did here).  Aaaaah, fish poop!…one of the great mysteries of life.  ‘Marsha Mellow’s Blue-ish Freaks’ is nearly ready…e-mail me for advanced copies. -Marsha

Circling the Issue

circling the issue-12

The Issue was listing badly in a failing orbit around Jupiter.  She was dead in the water and her distress signal cut out abruptly on our approach.  She was a heavy freighter loaded with uranium ore, bound for the refineries on Mars and long overdue…something didn’t feel right.

We circled The Issue slowly about ten miles out – but with our engines hot in case it was a trap.  There were raiders in this sector who often used derelicts to stage their attacks.  There was no response to my hail, no wi-fi, no beams…no strobes.  Sensors showed cold engines and no (human) life signs.  I found a weird glitch in the data, something unrecognizable….but not enough to put the crew off their prize.  The salvage on The Issue would make every man on board filthy rich.  I was the only one still arguing for caution but none of the men wanted the opinion of someone like me.  I was property and was not entitled to a share anyway.

When the Captain (despite my misgivings) gave the order to board, we moved in and docked with reckless abandon.  A combat team stood at the ready as I popped the air lock.  They made me go first.  They always made the android go first.  I was the most expendable…expensive but not valuable.

And…as I swung the hatch open, a sudden violent flood of spidery greenish critters swarmed through the airlock by the hundreds.  I guess I didn’t taste good because they left me alone and flowed past me, devouring the crew as they went.  I waited.  It took them 19 minutes to scour the ship from bow to stern and I listened to each and every man screaming his last – the men who treated me like shit for two solid years – the men who sneered at my warnings.

I waited…to see what this NEW crew had to offer.  It couldn’t be any worse than the last one…..this could be interesting…

***Another lovely Christmas themed piece for today.  I’m not religious but I love Santa Clause…and everybody knows he’s a time travelling alien robot, so…..but honestly, the Santa bit we had planned for today turned out far too gruesome to show…yet.  John’s sketch for this post was originally published in the May 2006 issue of Analog Magazine for a story by Edward M. Lerner.  -Marsha

 

Handyman

handyman-image-06     Darryl woke up with that feeling again – impossible to describe but all too familiar at this point. He kept his eyes closed for a while longer, savoring the dream he was having about his old, normal life…before all the changes…before every morning became a horror show, wondering if he would find another growth.

He did his best to soothe his anxiety, tried to make lemonade out of the lemons that seemed to be smothering him.  After all, how could yet another, extra hand possibly be all that bad for a skilled craftsman who worked with his hands?  Each one seemed to have all his talent and strength.  His productivity tripled, he was making money hand-over-fist (no pun intended) and for the first time in his life, people found him kinda interesting…..

But…waking up every few days with another fully formed hand growing out of some empty patch of his flesh was really starting to effect his sanity.

***This was a tough image to pull out of John’s thick head but with an iron skillet and a power drill I finally managed it (long story) and it lead to a new book project called “Body-Oddies” (which won’t be done for at least a year).  -Marsha

Tick, Tick, Tick…

The room was not large, just a conference room in the library where ten of us sat around a table writing.  It was a typical Saturday morning workshop and the prompt was part of the lyrics to the Star Wars theme.  The music rattled around my brain easily enough but for some reason I couldn’t recall it ever having lyrics.  I was frustrated.  I drew a blank while everyone else was scribbling away…and the music in my head became louder, incessant…persistent…..maddening!

tick-tick-02    It suddenly stopped when a new sound caught my attention.  It was coming from Keith at the other end of the table.  There was a tick, tick, ticking that quickly replaced my obsession – in perfect rhythm and beat – to those lyrics, whatever they were…tick, tick, ticka, ticka-ticka, tick, tick.  I was tapping my toe on the carpet now…ticka-ticka, tick, tick.  Louder and louder it got, tick, ticka, tick…Keith was writing intensely.  Tick, tick-ticka.  How could he not hear it?  Tick-tick, ticka-tick.   Was I the only one?  Ticka-tick-ticka, tick.  Was that smoke coming out of his ears?  Tick-tick.  Coooool!  Ticka-tick-ticka.  The ticking got faster as bright beams of light began to emerge from his skull.  Tick-ticka-ticka-ticka-tick.  It filled the room…blinding me…..ticka-ticka-ticka…BANG!!!!!

     Like a mouse in a microwave, the walls, floor and ceiling were suddenly pasted with Keith juice and bits of sticky flesh and bone.

Still, nobody seemed to notice.  Everyone just kept on writing even as a slippery chunk of bowel slid down Carl’s face and a bloody ear clung to the end of Joe’s pencil.  Keith’s head and chest were gone and his fluids were squirting Susan’s cheek…but he kept on writing as well.  Susan paused to open an umbrella and brush gore off her laptop, unmoved.

Everything was quiet for a few minutes as pens scribbled on wet paper and blood dribbled and pooled in my under shorts….then the ticking started again…but this time it sounded like it was coming from Nancy…..tick, tick, tick…coooool!

***The illustration was originally published as the cover for Analog Magazine’s Jan/Feb 2012 issue, for a story by Robert J Sawyer.  -Marsha