Company Policy
by Peter Joseph Gloviczki
= = = = =
Just shred it. Someone might use it against us in court. That would be really unfortunate, wouldn't you say? And there is something else, too. It's about someone who works here. You haven't met Victoria. She has her Nokia super-glued to the left side of her face. She sends text messages like it's her job. I'm pretty sure she holds her phone in one hand and simply brushes her teeth with the other. She never puts it down. I've heard of talking during sex, but this seems a bit over the line – wouldn't you say? Anyway, she is someone to avoid. When you're here, we want you to be working. And cell phones are bad for you. They cause cancer. You knew that already? Good. But it was my job to tell you. Yes, I'm serious. No, I'm not kidding. Half of all things in life cause cancer, the other half will kill you. But using your cell phone will definitely get you fired. Any questions?
= = = = =
bio: Mr. Gloviczki is a student of media and politics. This fall, he will enter the London School of Economics and Political Science to pursue an MSc in Politics and Communication. His flash fiction has previously been published in Flash Flooding.
Monday, July 31, 2006
Friday, July 28, 2006
submit: Fringe Magazine
Move over Wonder Bread! Fringe Magazine, seeks flash fiction for online publication. For Fringe purposes, a flash fiction (or short short) piece is less than 1,000 words. Submit 1-3 at a time, and please put "Flash Fiction" in the subject line.
We are also accepting submissions for our special February 2007 issue, which will focus on feminism. Please see our guidelines, available at http://www.fringemagazine.org/submissions.htm for further details.
Email submissions to FringeFiction@gmail.com. We look forward to reading your work.
We are also accepting submissions for our special February 2007 issue, which will focus on feminism. Please see our guidelines, available at http://www.fringemagazine.org/submissions.htm for further details.
Email submissions to FringeFiction@gmail.com. We look forward to reading your work.
Monday, July 10, 2006
story: Mission
Mission
by Kirsten Anderson
= = = = =
"I'm too quiet, too set in my ways to do something crazy like this," said Linda as she clutched her purse to her chest. "I don't take chances."
"Think about my offer," said the angel. He unbuttoned his dark brown leather jacket and tipped back his fedora. "You'll see I'm right."
"No," said Linda. "Really, I'll be fine if I don't do this. Pick another person. Someone like…" She looked around the diner and saw an elderly woman slurping soup. "Like her. She's old. Probably doesn't have many years left."
"She's already done it," said the angel. "She just did it yesterday, at her grandson's birthday party. The old gal knows how to have a good time."
A strand of thin hair straggled over Linda's gaunt cheek as she gasped. "I didn't need to know that. What kind of angel are you?"
He chuckled. "Well, I'm not one of those big-league angels, all halos, harps, and announcements. I'm a down-to-earth type on a mission to help people."
"Does your mission have to include me?"
"Eventually it includes everyone." He signaled to the waitress. "The special, please."
Linda cast a nervous look at the brown, square object on the plate. A soft white substance oozed across the top.
"It's horrible, I can't!" she wailed.
"Close your eyes and think back to better times." He reached his hand over and placed it on hers with a feather-light touch. "Just a bit of the corner there." His voice became silky. "Go ahead. Try it."
Linda looked at the plate with misgivings, then shut her eyes and forced a tiny piece of the square into her mouth. When the chocolate brownie and ice cream flooded her taste buds, a smile of relief melted her sharp features. She dug her fork in deeper.
"I've been on a diet so long I forgot how good this tastes," she exclaimed. She looked up at him. "Thank you."
"My work is done here." The angel stood up. "You're now free."
As he left the diner, he took out his appointment book and ran a pencil over the list of names. A full day stretched ahead of him, filled with hundreds of carb-starved souls just waiting for salvation. The angel sauntered down the street with a peaceful smile that made passersby remember the smell of their mother's cookies cooling on the kitchen counter or dream of offering chocolate-covered strawberries to their beloveds.
= = = = =
Bio/publishing history: Ms. Anderson's short fiction has appeared in the ezines Flashshot, The Rose & Thorn, Wild Violet, and MicroHorror.
by Kirsten Anderson
= = = = =
"I'm too quiet, too set in my ways to do something crazy like this," said Linda as she clutched her purse to her chest. "I don't take chances."
"Think about my offer," said the angel. He unbuttoned his dark brown leather jacket and tipped back his fedora. "You'll see I'm right."
"No," said Linda. "Really, I'll be fine if I don't do this. Pick another person. Someone like…" She looked around the diner and saw an elderly woman slurping soup. "Like her. She's old. Probably doesn't have many years left."
"She's already done it," said the angel. "She just did it yesterday, at her grandson's birthday party. The old gal knows how to have a good time."
A strand of thin hair straggled over Linda's gaunt cheek as she gasped. "I didn't need to know that. What kind of angel are you?"
He chuckled. "Well, I'm not one of those big-league angels, all halos, harps, and announcements. I'm a down-to-earth type on a mission to help people."
"Does your mission have to include me?"
"Eventually it includes everyone." He signaled to the waitress. "The special, please."
Linda cast a nervous look at the brown, square object on the plate. A soft white substance oozed across the top.
"It's horrible, I can't!" she wailed.
"Close your eyes and think back to better times." He reached his hand over and placed it on hers with a feather-light touch. "Just a bit of the corner there." His voice became silky. "Go ahead. Try it."
Linda looked at the plate with misgivings, then shut her eyes and forced a tiny piece of the square into her mouth. When the chocolate brownie and ice cream flooded her taste buds, a smile of relief melted her sharp features. She dug her fork in deeper.
"I've been on a diet so long I forgot how good this tastes," she exclaimed. She looked up at him. "Thank you."
"My work is done here." The angel stood up. "You're now free."
As he left the diner, he took out his appointment book and ran a pencil over the list of names. A full day stretched ahead of him, filled with hundreds of carb-starved souls just waiting for salvation. The angel sauntered down the street with a peaceful smile that made passersby remember the smell of their mother's cookies cooling on the kitchen counter or dream of offering chocolate-covered strawberries to their beloveds.
= = = = =
Bio/publishing history: Ms. Anderson's short fiction has appeared in the ezines Flashshot, The Rose & Thorn, Wild Violet, and MicroHorror.
Friday, July 07, 2006
story: Tuesday
Tuesday
by Rod Drake - mrdrake@cox.net
= = = = =
“I’m in position. Target sighted.” Ray York, SWAT sniper, whispered into his headset. He crouched on the roof, his rifle resting on the parapet wall.
“Copy. Stand by,” came the response from his captain.
Through the high-powered scope, Ray could see one guy, the target, either drunk or high, yelling at his ex-wife, now the hostage, and waving his handgun around. A real piece of work. Beer belly, balding, wearing a wife beater t-shirt. Every so often he would fire out the second-story window at the police cars barricaded below and shout obscenities.
Sushi. That would be good for supper, Ray decided as he waited. Maybe stop at Samurai Sushi on the way home tonight. And stop next door to pick up a lottery ticket. I’m feeling lucky today.
He shifted his position slightly. Planet of the Apes movie marathon on cable tonight. All five of the films, one after the other in order. It didn’t get much better than that, Ray smiled to himself. I really love the second one, Beneath the Planet of the Apes. Those surviving mutant freaks worshipping the last atomic missile. Classic. And even good old Charlton makes a cameo at the end.
The t-shirted target weaved around the apartment, still shouting it looked like. Ray followed him with the rifle. The marathon doesn’t start till later; with any luck, I can be home before Beneath the Planet of the Apes begins with my sushi. That would be sweet.
Should I ask Caitlyn over? Caitlyn lived in an apartment on the floor below him. They had done a few things together recently. I’m guessing she’s not a big fan of scifi films, but I know she likes sushi. I wonder if she’ll be home tonight? Probably. It’s Tuesday.
Ray’s headset crackled, “Still have the target?”
“Affirmative.”
Was Tuesday the night Caitlyn took that night class? Or was it Thursday? What was that night class; cooking? No, some kind of art. Pottery maybe. Ray flexed his fingers, one by one, maintaining his grip on the rifle all the time.
Ray suddenly remembered his nephew’s birthday was only two days away. I’ve got to get something for him tomorrow, without fail, and drop it by the house before I forget.
I was late last year and still haven’t heard the end of it from my sister. Maybe a super soaker. That would be a cool gift for a nine-year old.
The headset ordered, “Take the shot.”
Ray fired, once, and the target went down hard and fast. Ray put the rifle aside and stood up. For some reason, the line “Get your hands off me, you damned, dirty ape,” flashed through his mind.
= = = = =
Biography: Rod Drake is a native of the Midwest, but currently resides in Las Vegas, Nevada. He has written creatively for himself and a few friends for many years who advised him to share his stories with a larger audience. His favorite writers are Kurt Vonnegut, Richard Brautigan, Ray Bradbury and Mickey Spillane. He hopes to be a success one day.
by Rod Drake - mrdrake@cox.net
= = = = =
“I’m in position. Target sighted.” Ray York, SWAT sniper, whispered into his headset. He crouched on the roof, his rifle resting on the parapet wall.
“Copy. Stand by,” came the response from his captain.
Through the high-powered scope, Ray could see one guy, the target, either drunk or high, yelling at his ex-wife, now the hostage, and waving his handgun around. A real piece of work. Beer belly, balding, wearing a wife beater t-shirt. Every so often he would fire out the second-story window at the police cars barricaded below and shout obscenities.
Sushi. That would be good for supper, Ray decided as he waited. Maybe stop at Samurai Sushi on the way home tonight. And stop next door to pick up a lottery ticket. I’m feeling lucky today.
He shifted his position slightly. Planet of the Apes movie marathon on cable tonight. All five of the films, one after the other in order. It didn’t get much better than that, Ray smiled to himself. I really love the second one, Beneath the Planet of the Apes. Those surviving mutant freaks worshipping the last atomic missile. Classic. And even good old Charlton makes a cameo at the end.
The t-shirted target weaved around the apartment, still shouting it looked like. Ray followed him with the rifle. The marathon doesn’t start till later; with any luck, I can be home before Beneath the Planet of the Apes begins with my sushi. That would be sweet.
Should I ask Caitlyn over? Caitlyn lived in an apartment on the floor below him. They had done a few things together recently. I’m guessing she’s not a big fan of scifi films, but I know she likes sushi. I wonder if she’ll be home tonight? Probably. It’s Tuesday.
Ray’s headset crackled, “Still have the target?”
“Affirmative.”
Was Tuesday the night Caitlyn took that night class? Or was it Thursday? What was that night class; cooking? No, some kind of art. Pottery maybe. Ray flexed his fingers, one by one, maintaining his grip on the rifle all the time.
Ray suddenly remembered his nephew’s birthday was only two days away. I’ve got to get something for him tomorrow, without fail, and drop it by the house before I forget.
I was late last year and still haven’t heard the end of it from my sister. Maybe a super soaker. That would be a cool gift for a nine-year old.
The headset ordered, “Take the shot.”
Ray fired, once, and the target went down hard and fast. Ray put the rifle aside and stood up. For some reason, the line “Get your hands off me, you damned, dirty ape,” flashed through his mind.
= = = = =
Biography: Rod Drake is a native of the Midwest, but currently resides in Las Vegas, Nevada. He has written creatively for himself and a few friends for many years who advised him to share his stories with a larger audience. His favorite writers are Kurt Vonnegut, Richard Brautigan, Ray Bradbury and Mickey Spillane. He hopes to be a success one day.
Monday, July 03, 2006
submit: MicroHorror.com: Short Stories. Endless Nightmares
This just in from the Flash Forward mail bag:
MicroHorror.com is a free online archive for short-short horror
fiction, and we're accepting submissions! You'll find no stories
longer than 666 words. Come and browse!
MicroHorror.com: Short Stories. Endless Nightmares.
http://www.microhorror.com
Nathan Rosen, editor
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
