Issue 13 October 2014 Flash Fiction Online October 2014

O, it turns out, is also for Oddness, and oddness is the prevailing theme of the month.

“You know an odd feeling?” said comedian George Carlin. “Sitting on the toilet eating a chocolate bar.”

What? Where did that come from? Why is that funny? Because it’s odd. Because it surprises you with some ordinary experiences that are tossed together, making them both strange beyond reason.

These last few months as we stirred through the slush pile the odd kept bobbing to the surface like Halloween party apples. Must be that October Oddness. The oddness that gave birth to not only Halloween but Oktoberfest. So we put a virtual paperclip on them and saved them for October.

First up is “Columbidae” by returning FFO author Nathaniel Lee. I can’t sum up this story any better than our publisher, Anna Yeatts, did when she read it. She said, “Huey (our hero) is such an unreliable narrator. And he took me places that I didn’t expect. I don’t remember the last time that happened in a story. They tend to run on rails. And this one not only pulled up the rails but twisted them into knots and blew them up.”

Odd isn’t always humorous as you’ll find in our next story, “The Liar” by David Austin. An odd and touching look at last moments.

In our submission guidelines it states that we’re not big fans of second-person narrative. Occasionally, though, we find a story in which a second person is done too well to ignore. “If You Want,” by Luc Reid is one of those occasional stories, which is odd in and of itself. Even more odd that me, as a woman, was able to slip seamlessly into the head of a male character who is odd, in an odd story that weaves plenty of emotional impact into all that oddness.

Enjoy!

Suzanne Vincent

Editor-in-Chief

They were beating on the door. Huey could hear it rattling, see it shaking in the frame. They were going to take him away and lock him up like he was crazy. And this was only fair, Huey reflected, edging a little further out onto the ledge. The cars below looked like droplets of blood wending their way through plastic tubing. He kicked off his loafers and watched them tumble in the cross-drafts. 

A pigeon landed beside him. “You’re in a tough spot,” the pigeon said.

“Yeah,” Huey agreed.

“You gonna go back inside?”

“Can’t,” said Huey. “They’ll get me.”

The pigeon scratched at its beak with one foot. “You got one option, then.”

Huey laughed once, bleakly. “Jump?”

“Nah,” said the pigeon, stretching its wings. “Fly.”

It took off. It looked pretty easy.

Huey looked down. Huey looked back inside. Huey looked up.

He shrugged. He jumped.

“Hey, good job,” said the pigeon, swooping around. “You got pretty good technique for a human.” 

Huey swerved, flapping wildly. The winds were brutal between the skyscrapers. “Harder than it looks.”

“You’ll get the hang of it. C’mon, I’ll show you around.” 

The pigeon wheeled toward the park. Huey followed.

The pigeons were gathering around the park bench. An old man in a white suit dipped slow fingers into a bag and sprinkled bread crumbs all around. He eyed Huey, then stood and departed with dignity. 

“Hey, guys,” said the pigeon.

“What’s up?” asked another one.

“Showing the new guy the ropes.” 

Huey waved shyly.

“He gonna be a pigeon?”

“Might as well, right?”

The other pigeons murmured. “He scared off the bread-crumb man,” one pointed out.

Flushing red, Huey opened his mouth to apologize.

“Give him a break,” the pigeon snapped. “It’s his first day. Jeez, some people.”

“I’m really not comfortable at all,” Huey said. He clung to the statue’s head, his pants around his ankles. 

“It’d be easier if you just ditched the clothes,” the pigeon told him, pecking playfully at his fingers.

“I don’t have any feathers underneath.”

“Those will come,” said the pigeon contentedly. “Can’t rush those. Pooping on statues is something we can take care of now, though.”

They were silent for a while. Huey grunted.

“Man,” said the pigeon, “you’re slow, but you’re thorough.”

“Bran muffins,” said Huey, looking relieved.

“Yeah, those are great. Everyone throws away at least half. C’mon. We’ll hit the day-old bagels.”

“The city is for us,” the pigeon told Huey, perched on the back of the bench, “for pigeons, and we love it. We love it because it loves us.”

“But humans built it,” said Huey. “This is our- their place.”

“No.” The pigeon flared its ruff. “Humans built the city, yes, but the city is _for_ the pigeons. It feeds us. It warms us. It shelters us. The city is the nest and the egg in the nest. It is-“

“Huey?” It was Ellie. Her hair was pulled back in an onyx river, and she was wearing the maroon lipstick. “Why the fuck are you not wearing pants?”

Huey started to blush, then remembered, and blushed at forgetting. He scratched his nose with his feet instead, having not yet grown his beak or scaley claws. “I’m growing feathers,” he told Ellie.

Ellie squinched up her face, her brown eyes almost disappearing into slits. “You’re in a bad way, Huey. Look, I just came-“

“I won’t come back,” Huey interrupted, puffing his chest out and tucking his hands into his armpits to make stubby wings. “That world is lost to me forever.”

“I wasn’t asking you to,” said Ellie, using her words like tweezers. She held out a folded packet of papers. “Here. It’s a restraining order. You come near me or the kids again and I’m having you arrested.” She wheeled and click-clacked away down the sidewalk. 

“She seemed nice,” the pigeon said, “for a human.”

“Yeah…” Huey fingered the papers. They might make good nest lining once he’d softened them up a little. “What about rats? Is the city for them?”

The pigeon made a rude noise. “They can keep the subway. Philistines.”

“I’m worried about my feathers,” Huey said. His beard was long, now, but still patchy. He’d kept the suit jacket for the cold winter nights. It was completely black now, mostly from oil and exhaust fumes. 

The pigeon sighed. “I wish you wouldn’t. They’re not important.”

“But you said-“

“Look, honestly, you’re probably not ever going to have feathers. It’s just not a thing. But that doesn’t make you less of a pigeon, capisce?”

Huey bent back over the strewn garbage, hunting for fat and juicy maggots. He didn’t say anything.

“I gotta go. Remember what I said about the city.” The pigeon spread his wings.

“When will you be back?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Huey perched on a ledge halfway up the Scotia Bank. He was alone. He was nude. He was off-balance, his featherless limbs akimbo, but he’d made his nest with a stolen parka and three entire newspapers and the expectation of eggs. The sun was setting, and the air was cold. The day-old bagels would be dumped soon, and Huey had designs on an unattended hot dog on a cart down below. But not just yet. For now, Huey kept his wings tucked close by his side. Cars honked below him, filling the air with blue-tinged exhaust. One by one the streetlights were coming on. On the other side of the windows, televisions danced and shouted, but out here all Huey could hear was the traffic and the wind. He looked over the street and felt his chest swelling with the pride and love of a pigeon for his city. The city was an egg, and the nest around the egg. The city was for the pigeons, whatever anyone else thought.

“Coo,” Huey said, “coo coo.”

And he knew the city heard him, and loved him back. 

The boy, who would rather be called a man, was dying. Fire ate at the old forest, but the Liar couldn’t feel the heat. He felt only the boy’s fear, his pain, his regret. The way his bloody fingers slipped over the buttons as he tried to radio for help. The machine was dead, but the boy’s sight was fading and he couldn’t see.

“Easy, son,” the Liar said. The distant whine of incoming aircraft ran through the leaves.

“Ca- Captain?” the boy asked.

The Liar nodded. “It’s me. Just relax, private. We’ll get you out of here.”

“But, they… command said fall back. Retreat past… past…” The boy closed his dark eyes, trying to remember.

“You misheard,” the Liar said, his voice calm. “The enemy has fled. They’re running home.The boy looked around him. The Liar saw through his eyes, saw the sea of dark blurs that remained to him.

“Why are you-” the boy was interrupted by a fit of coughing that brought up too much blood. The Liar wiped the boy’s chin with a handkerchief as the aircraft began to scream.

“I promised your mother that I’d get you home.”

“Mama?” his voice trailed off.

“Soon. Just close your eyes. You’ll be home soon.”

“Thank you…” he murmured as he drifted off into death. “Captain…”

The old forest erupted as the planes reached them and dropped their payload. The Liar walked away from the corpse of the boy, flames swallowing everything. Earthbreaking concussions enveloped him as he folded his bloody handkerchief and put it back into his pocket. Remnants of the boy’s pain lingered in his chest. The Liar walked for a long time, until the sounds of battle faded. 

The girl wore her bathing suit in the tub. She didn’t want her mother to find her naked and tell the paramedics how fat she was, how her mother had never been that fat. How it was probably better that she died now instead of dying alone, as she surely would. No man would ever love someone like the girl. 

So she wore her bathing suit. A one piece, not the cute bikinis like the other girls had worn on the Beta Club trip to Splash Mountain. It had vertical black and white stripes, and her mother had said it was slimming. She had wanted the one with flowers on it, but her mother said she’d look like an old lady in a flowery one. But Amberly Akin had worn a bikini with flower prints and everyone had told her how good she looked. The girl didn’t tell her mother that.

The Liar pushed the door open gently, so the girl wouldn’t be scared. The tub was turning red from the ribbons of blood flowing from the girl’s wrists. Her pain sat in his gut, heavy as a bowling ball. The jagged lines on her wrists were paled beside that.

She looked up at the sound of his shoes on the tile.

“Dad?”

“Hi, honey,” the Liar said.

“Where have you been?” she asked. Her voice was soft. The way her mother told her it should be.

“Away. I’m so sorry, honey. But I’m back now, and I’ll never leave you again.”

“Mother won’t let you stay, she’ll throw you out again!” The girl sniffed as tears formed in her eyes. The Liar reached out and took her hand in his, blood slick between them.

“No she won’t. You and I are going to California, and we’re going to live on the beach.”

“Oh,” the girl was fading. “Good. But I think I did something bad.”

“You did. Very bad.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Of course I can,” he lied.

The girl smiled as her eyes closed. “I’m tired, Daddy.”

“Just take a nap, honey. We’ll leave as soon as you wake up.” The Liar smiled.

“Ok, Daddy.”

The Liar held her hand until the girl’s breath disappeared completely, and then for a long time after that. The water grew tepid. When he left the empty house, a cold rain was falling.

The old man was going to die just as the sun came up. His room was dark but for the green glow of the monitors. A slow beeping was the only sound. No nurses brought medicine, no doctors checked charts, no sons or daughters tried to sleep in the solitary armchair by the window. 

The Liar sat down in the armchair and waited. There wasn’t much pain, just a warm sadness.

The pink prologue of dawn rapped on the window, and the old man opened his eyes.

“Who are you?” the old man asked, his voice scratchy from the intubation.

“Hey, Dad,” the Liar said. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’m about to die. Who are you?”

“It’s Paul. Your son,” the Liar said, softly.

“No you aren’t. Paul’s in Seattle,” the old man said.

The Liar shifted in his almost comfy chair.

“I wanted to see you, to tell you -”

“I’ve gone crazy, haven’t I? That Alzheimer’s got me, and I’m seeing things that ain’t,” the old man said. 

The Liar shook his head. “You aren’t crazy.”

“Then what’s happening?”

The Liar sighed. After a moment, he said, “You’re going to die.”

“I know that.”

“Today.”

The old man took a moment. “Why’d you come here?”

“To help you,” the Liar said.

“Help me live?”

“No. To make it… easier.”

“Will you make it painless?” The old man asked.

“I can’t do that.”

The old man snorted and he rolled to look out the window.

“I’m sorry,” the Liar said.

“It’s alright,” the old man said, then coughed. His eyes were clouded and his hand shook as he grasped the handrail of the bed.

The two sat in silence for a little while as the sun crept over the horizon.

“So,” the old man said, “what’s next?”

“You’ll grow sleepy, and your lungs will -”

“No,” the old man interrupted. “After that.”

“I don’t know,” the Liar said.

The sun was halfway over the hill and the hospital room was coming out of the darkness. The old man’s breath started to rattle as he drew it, and the Liar knew it would be over soon.

“What good are you then?” the old man whispered.

The Liar watched the sun rise with the old man; a weak comfort, but better than nothing.

You are not the son your parents hoped for.

Your father is a minister. Your mother is a would-be Olympic skater, a famous local beauty who blew out her knee at the age of 17. They wanted a son to be proud of, a confident son with friends and followers, a clever son who could breeze through school, a handsome and charismatic son.

That is not you. You are the weird son, the son who discovered a skill for drawing painfully evocative portraits of neglected animals. You can smoke almost anywhere without getting caught. You do a perfect impression of the vice principal getting upset. You sometimes wish the zombie apocalypse would come just so you wouldn’t have to spend your days going back and forth between a school where you’re a joke and a home where you’re invisible.

The zombie apocalypse doesn’t come.

You have just graduated from high school. Your father has strong-armed his alma mater into accepting you as a pre-law student.

If you want to accept a place you didn’t earn to practice a lucrative profession you’ll hate, go to college.

If you want a life of loneliness and rebellion, take a job at the amusement park in Springfield.

You have chosen a life of loneliness and rebellion.

You take a job running the Tilt-a-Whirl. Your friends are unreliable and do harder drugs than you do. Your basement apartment has plumbing problems the landlord promises to fix but never does.

Your loneliness becomes harder and harder to bear. You begin to admit to yourself that you have feelings for an old friend from high school, the only old friend you’re still in touch with.

He’s a boy. He is not gay.

If you want to humiliate yourself, suffering disgust and ill treatment from your homophobic co-workers, come out of the closet.

If you want to not be gay, find a girlfriend.

You have chosen not to be gay.

This does not work.

You experience two years of self-denial and guilt over your crushes and feelings. You have acquired an ex-fiancée who hates you. Your homophobic co-workers call you gay anyway.

You finally find a boyfriend, Cal, but he is distant and verbally abusive. When after eighteen months you break up with him, you can’t find another boyfriend.

You are fired from the amusement park because you are too depressed to come to work. You stop paying your rent and after a time receive an eviction notice, but you are never actually evicted, because the zombie apocalypse happens first.

The zombie virus is virulent and impossible to control. The zombies rapidly spread across the world.

The zombies will continue to grow in numbers until they can’t find any more brains to eat, at which point they’ll starve and die (again). However, all of humanity may have to become extinct for this to happen.

Through Cal, you find out about an experimental cryogenic preservation program to save the human race. Participants would emerge to repopulate the world once the zombie apocalypse is over. Freezing has a 98% failure rate because the cryogenic process is so imprecise.

If you want to probably kill yourself but escape the zombies, volunteer.

If you want to be overrun by zombies and eaten alive, hide in your basement apartment.

You have chosen to volunteer.

You do not tell them you’re gay because you’re concerned it would make you an undesirable candidate. They don’t ask many questions. The freezing process is unbelievably painful.

Soon after you’re frozen, it’s discovered that the zombies are repelled by twelve-tone music, and the remaining humans gather, mainly in cities, and place massive speakers all around themselves in a defensive wall. Arnold Schoenberg compositions and random, computer-generated tones are played twenty-four hours a day at top volume.

While the price is high in morale, this defense gives humanity an opportunity to genetically engineer and breed hundreds of thousands of zombie-killing dogs over the next two years. The dogs excitedly hunt down and tear apart the mobs of animated corpses until the zombies are nearly eradicated.

During this period, Cal becomes anxious that you’ll be revived and will be angry at him for suggesting cryogeny, which he only mentioned as a cruel joke. He manages to have your cryogeny records deleted. You are left plugged in but forgotten in storage.

140 years pass.

You are eventually found and are surprised to wake up. Cal has been scanned and uploaded as an immortal virtual personality. New forensic data analysis software determines that Cal purposely caused your record to be deleted. Under the current laws of the Unified Territory of Texlahoma, you have the right to terminate his scan.

If you want to vent your anger and sense of loss on Cal, who after all is a complete ass, terminate his scan.

If you don’t have the guts to kill him, run off to live in a floating city, change your name, and have your memory erased.

You have chosen forgiveness.

That wasn’t one of the options. The options were: One, vent your–

You have chosen forgiveness.

Who’s telling this story, you or me? You can’t just come up with a new–

You have chosen forgiveness.

Fine. Fine! You think it’s easy to plan the course of a person’s life? You think it’s easy to figure out what the important choices are? I should just stop writing your story and leave you with no help at all. How would you like that?

Forgiveness. I ask you! Just think of what he’s done to you, how you’ve lost everything because of him!

Forgiveness! I suppose that’s what you want your life to be now, sweetness and boredom, going around forgiving people all the time. Well, you know what? We’ll just see how that works out for you. Do whatever you want. Just don’t come crying to me if it doesn’t work out. Go ahead: write your own story. See if I care!

You write your own story.