Flash Fiction Friday #6 - August 6, 2009

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Sayer

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Aug 6, 2009, 11:13:43 PM8/6/09
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Another installment:

Best Friend.

She wouldn’t look at me. She hadn’t said anything, but I could see the
tears rolling down her face.

Something had definitely felt wrong when I saw the Jumpjets appear. I
don’t know how I knew, or even what I knew before they had landed, but
something about them made me uneasy. Heather had wanted to rush out
and meet them, but just like every other time I’d been overcome by
that uneasiness, there was a reason.

I was still confused about what I’d just seen. It was clear the
Coalition soldiers were somehow behind the destruction of our complex,
but I couldn’t fathom why. What possible reason could soldiers have to
murder children and elders?

The elders had told us that we’d be soldiers in the Coalition one day.
Sure that would have been a long way off and there were trials and
training to be done before then, but we were “them”. The soldiers I’d
just seen would have started their lives in a complex just like ours.
They would have obeyed the same caste rules and had elders of their
own. They would have been taught to protect just as we had. Why would
they abandon all of that, to do…this?

That bird was still singing somewhere out there.

They had seemed happy that there were no survivors. What could that
mean? Why did they want to be rid of us so badly? The Beholder was an
enemy unit, how would Coalition forces get control of it? Nothing I’d
ever studied had prepared me for this. We were standing alone,
surrounded by trees in a clearing that once was our home. Where would
we go?

Her fingers tightened around the axe and she sniffled loudly.

I knew we had to do something. I had no idea what, but we couldn’t
stay here. It was barely past midday, but eventually night would fall,
and I didn’t really want to be out here after dark. The Jumpjets had
approached from the east, so I figured that was where we should go.
What I had just witnessed had left me somewhat unwilling to follow the
Coalition, but right now it was the direction most likely to lead us
to something other than more trees.

I reached over and grasped her arm gently.

“Heather, we have to go”

She finally turned to look at me, blinking through her tears.
Wordlessly, she knelt, laying the axe on the ground, and began
unbuckling the bindings of her rollerskates. I wasn’t sure what that
meant. She hadn’t let go of that axe since this had all started, and
those skates were her most prized possessions. When she had first told
me about them, she made swear never to tell another living soul, and
she struggled through weeks of falls and bruises just to learn how to
stand in them.

That was Heather all over. Once she decided something was important
and set her mind to it, she’d keep at it stubbornly. We’d all been
trained to be protectors, the elders had made sure of that, but she
had taken it to heart. She’d spent almost all her free time pouring
over the broadcasts of the latest victories, ecstatic that someday
we’d be in those broadcasts. But now it seemed none of that was going
to happen.

She sniffled again.

I’d never been as excited about joining the Coalition as she was. As a
member of the Probability caste, I would have had to be a general. I
would have been in charge of all the other castes on the battlefield.
That was a prospect that made my skin crawl. I’d never liked the caste
rules enforced by the elders. I didn’t like the built in subservience.
It seemed to me that graduation would lead to even more rules.

She’d finished removing the skates and had tied the bindings together,
slinging them over her shoulder. She picked up the axe and turned to
me, still teary-eyed.

“We have to follow them.”

I glanced at her bare feet and realized why she’d undone the bindings.
Kinetic or not, it’d probably be difficult to walk through the trees
wearing rollerskates.

I knew what she meant by “following them” too. Following the Jumpjets
would be our best hope for finding shelter, but that wasn’t it. She
wanted to find them, the Coalition soldiers. She wanted to find out
why they had done this, and despite my awareness of the danger, so did
I. But much more importantly, I was going to help her because she was
my best friend.







Riann

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Aug 7, 2009, 3:08:06 PM8/7/09
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**A note on this peice**

They say behind every song there is a story. I decided to write an
inturpretation of what could be the story associated with a song. The
song is "None of the Above" by The Weakerthans. So I don't take full
credit for the story. I suggest that this one is co-written by John K.
Samson (and his words are much more beautiful than mine).



None
of the Above.

Some things seem too significant to happen in all night
resturants in North Kildonan, Manitoba, but that’s where it happened.
I suppose we both knew that it was coming, but still as we each fished
for someone to blame there seemed a chance if that perfect scapegoat
could be found we could move beyond this- the “nothing” that was
changing it all. The gravity of the thing was undermined by the
Formica tabletops and forced cheery 50’s rock that played overhead.
The snow had piled up outside as I waited for her to pull in. It was
only November but Winnipeggers didn’t affectionately call their city
Winterpeg for nothing. On the road, I’d heard other Canadians call it
that with no sense of love. It always got my back up. Mocking without
a kernel of devotion always seemed cruel to me.
The diner was new. When I’d left at the beginning of the summer
the land that the strip mall stood on had been a farm, but as the
suburb expanded out these cookie cutter box stores and plazas had
popped up every few blocks, chewing up and spitting out the farmland
like the cheap gum that would surely come with my bill as I settled
up. I caught sight of her entering and raised my hand to signal for
more coffee for me and a cup for her, I knew that at least, that she’d
want a hot cup to warm her. Not that this swill really qualified, as
either hot or coffee, my first cup had been barely luke warm and had
an odd soap like flavour that led me to believe that the pot hadn’t
fully been rinsed after the last hasty washing.

Hi,” she said shaking the snow off of her coat “you wanted to see me?’

“I wanted to see if we were doing the right thing” I offer “Shouldn’t
we at least try to work this out?’

“What’s the point John?” she asked, “Are you going to give up the
road? Get a job in some office and buy a house with me? Are you going
to be around for any kids we might have or are they going to have a
relationship with your cell phone too?” her hand flew across the table
as she gestured angrily, her saucer edged it’s way towards the end of
the table, taking the spoon with it. I reached out to stop them. With
this at least, I knew I could help her.

“You could come on the road with me” I suggested, spoon and rolling
saucer stilled “isn’t that what you said you wanted? Why don’t you
take a leave of absence from work, see if you like it?’

“Are you serious?” she rolled her eyes. I knew I’d been grasping at
straws, she’d just been promoted to regional manager at a chain of
trendy jean stores, something she’d worked hard for but I couldn’t
help thinking had changed her. The girl I’d met as a store manager two
years ago was hardly visible in the latte drinking, designer shirt-
buying woman sitting across from me. I began to trace her outline in
the sugar spilled acrossthe table. I knew that I was doing more than
killing time. With each second that I didn’t answer her, I was killing
the hope that I’d find the right words to say to fix it all. The
silence resonated in my head and I felt I needed to fill it. I’d have
something significant to say soon, I knew. I just needed to figure out
what. Instead I hummed a stupid country rock song that I’d heard at
her place once. I had idea who sang it or what it was called; I just
knew it had something to do with Honky Tonks and Bodonkadonks. The
fact that I’d heard it at her place seemed like small consolation.

“This is it?” was all I can think to say.

“ Do you want to come get your stuff later this week?” she responded.
I had my answer.

“Wednesday while you have Yoga, or do you want to be there?”

“You’re not taking the cat, are you?”

“Do you mind if she stays, I’m not sure if she’d like the road?”

I wondered why neither of us was saying what we wanted to. I knew
that she saw me as bitter and cynical since she’d begun her new life.
She thought the songs that I wrote were dark and brooding. The last
time I’d been home she’d played me Katy Perry to show me that music
could be relevant AND fun. I couldn’t say that I thought a song about
girls making out to attract guys particularly showed depth to me, and
when I laughed I saw the resentment in her eyes. Maybe that’s when it
ended for her. Her point of view had switched. I wasn’t profound and
artistic anymore. I was simply bitter. If I was honest, I was okay
with the person she had become thinking that. I missed the girl who
used to wake up on Saturday and take a “Tim’s run” before begging me
to take her on a hike. I wondered where that person was, and how in
just a few short months she’d become so vain.

“Can we be friends? She asked and I wondered why all of out questions
sounded identical to those of every other couple in the history of the
world who had had this conversation. I couldn’t help wondering if the
other patrons could hear us and thought we sounded as lame as I did. I
knew that I would miss her, the girl I’d met two years ago- maybe
forever. She hardly existed now, though. I couldn’t see her looking
back at me at all in these eyes that I had loved so deeply.

“Did you love me…ever?” She asked her eyes full of tears.

There’s my girl!” I thought with her tough veneer broke. Maybe I was
the bitter man she resented because I didn’t reach out and take her
hand. “How can you even ask me that?” I expressed, grabbing my hat and
leaving a 20 on the table.

Maybe that was our problem all along. We communicated only in
questions and never took the time to hear the meaningful answers.
Never mind. All our answers were the same.











oilsdragon

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Aug 7, 2009, 7:19:11 PM8/7/09
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It Was a Dead Zombie Werewolf Baby, Of Course
_________________________________________

"It was a dark and stormy night," she said sardonically. "Right.
That's a great start to the next chapter."

Rufus, lying on the floor in a heap of amber-coloured fur and labored
breathing, continued lying on the floor. Neither the thunder nor
Melissa's voice bothered him enough to make him give up his dead rug
impression.

"Some help you are," she muttered, turning back to the keyboard. Just
once, she wished she had a boyfriend, a troublesome sibling, someone
living with her with whom she could talk when her characters backed
themselves into a corner and she didn't know what to do. "Even if all
he'd have to say is, suck it up and just write it…

"Damn!" she exclaimed as the screen flickered in unconscious echo to
the lightning outside. She really ought to install a proper generator
one of these days, for nights like this.

The computer screen, the lights, even the digital clock flickered and
went out.

"Crap on a stick," Melissa muttered sourly, feeling her way to the
edge of the desk and trying to find the flashlight she'd stashed on
its corner earlier. She could have sworn she had put the darn thing on
top of the leaning tower of files not an hour ago, but it didn't seem
to be there.

"What did I do with it…?"

She stumbled across the room, hands outstretched. Rufus snored with a
tired wheeze when she tripped over him but offered no answers.

"Useless lump of fur…" she berated the dog, stretching her hand toward
the wall that would lead to the stairs. The wall didn't seem to be
there, either. Eventually she found it – six steps further than she
thought it belonged. And was it ever dark.

That was when she first heard the noise. It sounded like it was coming
from inside the enclosed front porch at the foot of the stairs, but it
couldn't be – that room was locked and barred. No, it had to be
outside. But what was it? Something between the howling of the wind
and the cry of a baby, it reminded Melissa of nothing so much as the
soundtrack of a ghost-themed B movie…

Creepy but meaningless, she told herself, but still shuddered as the
next peal of thunder shook the house. The lightning that followed
revealed nothing out of place. Still, the sound went on.

"Damn, damn, and double-damn," she muttered as she crept down the
stairs, wishing she had the missing flashlight. "Maybe I left it in
the hall…"

Of course it wasn't there. Why would it be? And damn that sound. It
was creepy! She'd been watching too many horror films. But she was
not, no way, no how, going out there to prove herself wrong and get
eaten by something…

Just when Melissa thought she might be able to dig in and ignore the
wailing sound, it raised its pitch and got louder.

It sounded like nothing so much as a baby crying – if a baby could
make twice the noise of a war between a zombie, a werewolf and a
ghost. A dead zombie werewolf baby, then. The thunder pealed and
lightning illuminated the hall and living room, for just a moment.
Nothing was out of place. Nothing moved. Still the howling went on.

Jokes aside, she was going to have to find out what was making that
sound, or else she'd be sitting here jumping at shadows until the
storm ended.

"It was a dark and stormy night, indeed," she muttered under her
breath. "Now look where that got me."

Creeping to the door, she peered through the panes of glass into the
porch. She couldn't see a thing; the porch was even darker than the
ambient blackness inside the house. Sweeping her keys off the mantle
by the door, she grabbed an umbrella and nearly knocked the entire
coat rack to the floor. "Smooth, very smooth," she noted sardonically.

Unlocking the porch door, she flung it wide. The sound was definitely
coming from outside the enclosed porch, beyond the front door. Nothing
moved. The volume of the sound hadn't changed – it only seemed louder,
she reminded herself, because there was one less piece of reinforced
wood between her and whatever was making that horrendous noise.

"If I don't make it back, Rufus," she said aloud although the cowardly
dog was still upstairs – probably fast asleep, for that matter, "Tell
them I died bravely."

She unlocked the final door between herself and whatever lurked
outside, opening this one more cautiously than she had the first.
Outside, the night was an undifferentiated mass of black and grey. The
rain poured down with such violence that even the pavement three feet
away was lost to invisibility.

Just beyond the lip of the door, on the top step in front of the
house, something moved and the unearthly wail briefly quavered as it
did. Thunder rumbled across the sky and the lightning flashed again.

"…Even if it's a very little dead zombie werewolf."

Melissa looked down into the reflection of two yellow eyes and grinned
at her own foolishness. The creature – five pounds of waterlogged fur
and skin and bone – wagged its tail and panted as Melissa scooped it
up and ducked back inside. The puppy's wail had cut off with a
suddenness that left Melissa's ears ringing and deaf to the thunder
and rain.

Damned if it wasn't the loudest, cutest little zombie werewolf she had
ever seen. Or, for that matter, heard.

Ryan

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Aug 7, 2009, 7:57:25 PM8/7/09
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Note: this week's story contains some bawdy humour, as well as
(arguably) Grecian blasphemy. Make of that what you will.
********************

It was a dark and stormy night. They all were now, Zeus thought to
himself, now that she had left. He stood out in the storm for hours,
hoping that the rain could drown him and free him of his pain.

Elsewhere on Olympus, Artemis and Apollo discussed their father. “This
is getting ridiculous,” Artemis told her brother. “I mean, I like a
good rainstorm as much as the next god, but this has been going on for
weeks! It's raining so much that even the days have become dark and
stormy nights!”

“I know, it's terrible, but what can we do?” her twin asked. “He is
king of the gods; his pain is, by definition, our pain.”

“What can we do?” Artemis repeated, mockingly. “You're a sun god, for
Gaia's sake, Apollo! He's treading all over your territory. If you
don't do anything, none of Olympus will ever be able to respect you.
Keep this up and that reprobate Helios will steal all your worshipers.
I hear he's especially fond of the virgin princesses, so they'll
probably be the first to go.”

Apollo hated it when she was right, and it showed across his divine
brow that he did. “That settles it, then,” Artemis said triumphantly.
“The only question now is how we get Father out of this funk.”

Apollo sighed, knowing the answer to his sister's question but equally
knowing it wouldn't go over well. “We'll have to talk to her,” he
said. “If we can get them back together, then Father will be back to
normal in no time.”

“Get him back with that wench? Never,” Artemis spat out. “He's better
off without her, and we need to make him realize that as well as we
know it.”

Apollo did not, in fact, know that, but he did know that his sister
had never accepted that Zeus' relationship with their mother, Leto,
had been only a minor fling, and that they would not still be together
even if Zeus hadn't been already married to Hera at the time. Such was
the fate of any woman that sought out a relationship with the
Thunderer.

Eventually, Artemis relented. It took several days of scouring the
world, but they were eventually able to find Hera. “What do you want?”
she asked them scornfully when they entered her sanctuary.

“Blessed Hera,” Apollo said, “we come to you on behalf of our father.”

“He sent you, did he?”

“No, my queen. You know how he is – too proud to admit that he's
hurting, or that he's done any wrong. But he does miss you – all of
creation knows it, in its current half-drowned state.”

“Well,” Hera said, “he should have thought of that before running off
with that damned harpy.”

“Actually, I think it was a siren, not a harpy,” Artemis offered. Both
Hera and Apollo glared at her, but for different reasons.

“I've not come to try to justify what my father has done,” Apollo
explained, trying to draw attention away from his sister. “All I can
say is that he is what he is, just as we all are.”

“That's still no excuse for what he did,” Hera said, starting to pace
around the sanctuary. “I have half a mind to just leave him be with
that siren slut of his.”

Apollo blushed, and continued. “The collary of that, though, is that
you are who you are, as well. Noble Hera. Regal Hera. Forgiving Hera.”

Hera considered Apollo's words. The little bastard had a point, she
realized. She thought, for a moment, about the humans that worshiped
her, and of the freedoms they had. They could worship who they wished,
lay with who they wanted, and freely choose to abandon either if they
wanted. She was a God, though, and as such, she had Responsibilities.
“Very well,” she said, “take me to him. I promise nothing, but at the
least, your father and I should talk.”

oilsdragon

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Aug 7, 2009, 8:32:48 PM8/7/09
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Ahaha! "Actually, I think it was a siren, not a harpy."

Ryan, I really enjoyed that :) But then I'm a sucker for anything to
do with mythology, especially the Greek gods. Very nicely done!

Dana

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Aug 7, 2009, 9:17:34 PM8/7/09
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My inaugural Friday Flash! Uhh, it's a bit rushed but sticking to
1000 words was tough :P

*********

The Academy Bijou

In my second and third years of university I lived with another guy in
an apartment block on Academy Road. Technically we were in River
Heights, but further down, away from the nice end. Next to us was the
Academy Bijou, which we used to say was the worst movie theatre in
Winnipeg. Not that we'd even been there. We were basing this solely
on its appearance.

When I was a kid, I read a comic about how these American soldiers
found a lone Japanese soldier on a tiny island in the Pacific. It was
fifteen years after World War Two but the Japanese guy had no idea the
war was over and started shooting at the Americans.

That's what the Academy Bijou was like. Pretty much all the other
small theatres had shut down, killed off by the big fifteen screen
mega-theatres. They only ran movies that played all the time on
television anyway and didn't even put up posters. They just had one
of those portable signs with interchangeable plastic letters. This
one week they were running a double bill of Breakfast Club and Aliens
and some kids rearranged it to read "Alien Ass Lube".

We had no idea how they stayed in business.

The first time I went to a show there, it was in the middle of
November on one of those days where the sky can't decide if it wants
to rain or snow so it dumps this wet slush on you. I was coming home
from a mid-term and just as I was stepping up the front steps of my
building I realized I'd left my keys on the table in the exam room.
I'd emptied my pockets out looking for my student ID card and forgot
to grab them on my way out. Just to be sure, I patted down my pockets
thoroughly and then cursed out loud.

My roommate wasn't due home for hours and the nearest coffee shop was
six blocks west. I looked around and saw the Bijou's sign. They were
playing Ghostbusters 2. They couldn't even play the good Ghostbusters
movie.

I sighed and went in.

Inside the ticket booth was a bored looked teenager. She sat in the
booth resting her head on one hand and thumbed through a magazine.

"One please."

"Three dollars," she said with a yawn. She was an Asian kid and wore
braces.

At least their prices were reasonable.

"I'll take some popcorn too, please."

"We don't sell popcorn. My grandfather says coconut oil is horrible
for you."

"Why not get an air popper?"

"Grandpa thinks air popped popcorn tastes like shit. I can nuke you
some instant noodles. They're a dollar."

"No thanks."

Inside the theatre there were, like, five people. An old couple was
sitting in the very front row. A guy in a UPS uniform was snoring
near the back, his legs draped over the seat in front of him and there
was a woman in her twenties maybe who was doing a crossword puzzle.

Before the show started, this old Asian guy walked onto the stage in
front of the screen. I mean, he wasn't ancient but his hair was all
grey and white. He had a bit of a British accent.

"Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to our matinee. How
about while watching this wonderful movie you think about what you
need, or what makes you happy? Enjoy the show!"

He walked off stage and a few minutes later the movie started. There
were no previews. What I needed or what made me happy? My keys would
have been fantastic. I dozed off right around the part where the
lawyer from Ally McBeal was going nuts and trying to kidnap Sigourney
Weaver's baby.

On the way out, the girl said to me, "Hey Martin, these your keys?"

"How did you know my name?"

"It's on this War Amps keytag. You looked like the only Martin in
there."

I looked at the keys she held out and said, "Those aren't my keys."

"What? You aren't Martin Ducroix?"

"Well, I am, but that's not the set of keys I lost today."

The set she was holding had a little plastic Snoopy bobblehead
attached to it and my War Amps keytag. I'd lost that set in Brussels
five years ago. The set I left at school was just four keys on a
plain metal ring.

Just then, the old guy came out of the theatre with a broom over one
shoulder.

"You messed up, grandpa. Wrong keys," she said.

"Messed up? Those aren't his keys?"

They both turned and looked at me.

"Uhh. Well they're mine I guess. But they're an old set. Not the
ones I need."

"Hmm...tough luck, kid, " said the old guy, "You only get one kick at
the can. Most people wish for something a little snazzier than a lost
set of keys."

"What do you mean wish?"

"I asked you to think about something you needed or that made you
happy."

"Like, you're a genie?"

He snorted. "Genies are fairy tales. I just grant wishes."

"Well can't I get a do-over? I didn't know I was wishing. Why didn't
you tell us?"

"Because then people get all self-conscious and want impossible stuff
like world peace or for all the children to be happy. This way,
people get what they actually want. Or some people get keys." He
shrugged. "Anyhow, thank you for your patronage. I have to go fix
the the projector. Bloody thing's broken down again."

I moved out of that apartment at the end of the school year and into a
house closer to campus with a bunch of other guys, but before that I
started hanging out at the Bijou sometimes.

The girl's name was Alice and her grandfather let her work there some
afternoons when she cut classes.

"So your grandpa's a magician?" I asked her once.

"Something like that."

"And you're, what, his apprentice?"

"Nah. Grandpa says I don't have the knack for magic. He says it's
because mom married an actuary. He thinks I should become a dentist."

Her grandfather owned the Bijou because watching movies engaged
peoples' imaginations and made magic easier. Plus, he liked movies.

I used to send my friends there sometimes, although I didn't tell them
about the wish thing, mostly out of spite because all I got for my
wish was a set of keys. I still use the little bobblehead Snoopy
though.

tama...@gmail.com

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Aug 8, 2009, 12:47:09 AM8/8/09
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Once upon a time, there was a little girl who had a black belt in
several forms of martial arts. She was also a master of stealth and
deception. One day, the little girl, who we will call “Red” for
today’s purposes, went to visit her grandmother. Red’s grandmother
lived in a tiny cottage in the middle of the woods because she had a
mysterious ailment that was aggravated by urban living conditions.
Therefore, a little stroll off the beaten path was required. Of
course, Red had no fear of traversing the woods. After all, she was a
ninja.

She packed a picnic basket, put on her namesake red riding cloak, and
journeyed into the woods. Before long, she was approached by a wolf.
It was a special wolf, Red could tell. It was bipedal, diurnal, and
apparently capable of speech. It talked like Craig Ferguson.

“Helloooooo there, cheeky monkey!” Said the wolf. “How nice to see
you.”

“Hi,” said Red. She wasn’t a fan of small talk and drew upon her
ninja training for patience.

“It’s a great day for the forest, everybody,” the wolf continued.
“Not such a great day for your grandmother, though. I heard she’s
sick.”

“Uh-huh. I’m going to see her now. So if you could get out of my
way...”

“I’m not in your whey,” replied the wolf. “That was the spider, who
likes to get in people’s whey.”

Red rolled her eyes and sighed. The wolf took no notice.

“Very different, a wolf and a spider. One’s a hairy, murderous, wild
beast - and the other’s a wolf!”

But by the punchline, Red had already sprung up into the nearest tree
and was skillfully leaping from branch to branch. Sensing he was
getting nowhere, the wolf returned to his den to substitute references
to Paul McCartney with pictures of Angela Landsbury.

Soon enough, Red reached her grandmother’s cottage. She made a
beeline for the bedroom, and entered quietly because she knew the old
lady might be resting.

“Hello, Grandmother,” she whispered. “It’s me, Red.”

Grandmother sat up in bed and nodded without expression. “Hello,
Red. Thank you for coming to visit me. I’m afraid it’s taking me a
little longer to recover from my surgery than I thought it would.”

Red approached the bedside and noticed something was amiss with the
woman’s elderly face.

“Why, Grandmother,” she said. “What big eyes you have.”

The grandmother still showed no trace of emotion. She merely replied,
“They’re just popping out a little from my eyelift. They should go
back to normal in a few days.”

Red knew that her grandmother’s surgery hadn’t been what most would
deem necessary, but she still wasn’t convinced.

“And Grandmother. What big teeth you have.”

“My dentures,” the grandmother replied. “They haven’t quite fit right
since the botox treatments.”

At least that explains why she remained expressionless.

“And Grandmother. What big...well...what I’m trying to say is, it’s
obvious you’ve had some work done.”

The grandmother waved dismissively. “Whatever, dear. Just bust out
the cookies and let’s play <i>Uno</i>.”

And so they played <i>Uno</i> and enjoyed some delicious cookies. But
still, Red’s instincts would not leave her alone. Suddenly, there was
a knock at the door. Red told her grandmother to wait as she
cautiously answered the door.

“Hello, you naughty donkeys!”

“Hi, Wolf.”

“Can you believe there is some guy out there hunting?” The wolf
breezed through the door, seemingly talking to himself. “I know!
It’s not even hunting season. The nerve of that guy, firing at will.
Will’s an elk, by the way.”

“So you want to take shelter in here?” Red said bluntly.

“If I may. I brought a real deck of cards so we can get a decent game
going.”

“Let the Scottish Conan wolf stay.” The grandmother called from her
bed. “And bring Will the Elk in here too. We need four for euchre.”

No sooner had they all sat down to play than did a pair of ninjas
burst out from Grandmother’s closet. Grandmother and the Craig
Ferguson wolf and Will the Elk all ducked under the bed.

“I knew it!” Red shouted. She dropped into a battle stance. The two
ninjas circled her, like a binary sunrise. Only, a weird sort of
binary sunrise because one ninja was wearing orange and the other was
wearing green. But I digress.
Orange threw the first punch. Red ducked it and counterattacked with
a sweep kick. Orange jumped out of the way, but Green didn’t, and he
hit the ground heavily. Springing back to his feet, Green flipped
over Red’s head and landed gracefully next to Orange. They squared
off again. Then Orange came at Red with a flying kick. She caught
his leg in midair, spun him around, and threw him crashing into
Green. The lifebars above their heads were depleted and flickered
out, and they faded into oblivion.

“It’s safe to come out now,” Red called. There were probably many
more interesting things that happened that day, but seeing as I am
nearing the limit of my word count, suffice it to say that they all
lived happily ever after.

Ryan

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Aug 8, 2009, 5:06:52 PM8/8/09
to Flash Fiction Fridays
Ri - that was excellent. I'm biased, I know, because of my John K
Sampson love, but an excellent story regardless.
Oilsdragon - You had me at "zombie werewolf baby". And thanks again
for the prompt - without it I don't think I ever would have written
bickering Artemis and Apollo, who were too much fun to write. I'll
have to spend some more time with them in the future.
Tamara - have you ever read the GN series Fables? This reminded me of
that kind of story (in a good way). A fun read.
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