Issue 43 April 2017 Flash Fiction Online April 2017

Anyplant who was anyplant knew that Yuuna and I were the only true contenders for the Victory Vine of Supreme Best Dressed in the 576th Annual Pollen Festival. The two of us had been sweeping up championships anterior and posterior all across Toutatis.

So when the judges announced a three-way tie for the final round, I fainted.

Yuuna stepped aside, allowing me to crash to the floor before I could smash into them. I nearly bruised my prime flowering bud. If it hadn’t been closed tightly for the announcement, I would have been in trouble.

After the judges recovered me with pollen salts, I thought-projected at Yuuna, What kind of a name is Miitica anyway?

Sounds like they came from the fifth parallel or something, they responded.

How repugnant.

Yuuna and I never got along. Their scent manipulation was maddeningly superior, but my petals were always voted most vibrant. However, we’d developed the rapport that comes with living together on the pageant circuit. We were like jealous but resigned nursery-mates. Without even asking, I knew we were of one encephalon: Miitica, wherever they came from, couldn’t win.

Two hours after the canopy buds opened and one hour after curfew, Yuuna and I met a cluster away in one of those run-down, rot-infested hotels whose leaves are always the same sickly shade of brown. That’s how desperate we were.

I was last year’s Supreme Best Dressed, and winning twice in a row would grant me fame across Toutatis, perhaps a sponsorship. Losing to Yuuna would be embarrassing, but I could recover. Losing to an unknown would squash my budding career completely. No one would take me seriously again—I’d be washed up, past my prime, done.

Trying not to absorb too much rot through our roots, Yuuna and I debated. Straight sabotage is the Qeexassirian beauty circuit way, but Miitica would be expecting it. I could imagine them waiting for us in their darkened chamber, stamens rippling smugly, peduncle bowed in amusement.

We settled on subtlety. During the competition tomorrow, I would slide my waxiest leaf across their anterior bud again and again. Yuuna would play the clumsy flower, knocking into them and gently ripping their buds. We would both rub pollen on them, confusing the pheromone portion of the judging.

Three rounds into the finals, our plan was underway. I’d worked up an uncouth, waxy sheen on Miitica’s anterior. Yuuna had managed small tears in the front buds, so Miitica kept bending their peduncle to cover up.
I came to the wings to watch Yuuna onstage for the scent manipulation. They swapped pollen after pollen, just as the judges asked, effortlessly keeping up with directions. I had struggled with speed—but I was confident I would make it up in the color kaleidoscope final round. Miitica’s petals looked rough, and no matter how they performed, marks would be taken off for unkempt appearance.

As I was mentally celebrating my victory, two large Qeexassirians stepped in front of me.

We heard you’ve been harassing our nursery-mate.

The thought projections from both reeled me backward. Clumps of dirt stuck in their roots as if they’d come straight from a meal without washing. Had they not even rinsed the excess chlorophyll from their leaves? My own roots shuddered in disgust.

We demand that you sabotage yourself in the last round. If you don’t, the rips we make in your petals won’t be the gentle ones Miitica has suffered. We’ll make sure they never heal. You’ll never compete again.

Shaking their pistils menacingly, they stumped off.

Yuuna’s scent manipulation faltered. They ended on a sour note and rushed past me off the stage, their petals pastel with fright. Miitica’s nursery-mates must have confronted them before the pheromone round.

All contestants assemble for the last round, came the thought direction from the judges.

Shaking out our leaves, Yuuna and I trundled onto stage. Miitica joined us, their stamens wavering to taste our moods, but I kept my pollen puffs worry-free.

Miitica went first. They preened and pranced, roots straining as they gave it their all. Yuuna stayed subdued, keeping their petals pale and half-closed. I averted my senses, embarrassed for them.

When it was my turn, I pulled myself tall, stepped forward, and turned my petals brilliant violet.

Everyone agrees violet is my best color.

I was glorious. My color kaleidoscope was even more impressive than Yuuna’s scent manipulation should have been. I swapped to bright amber—the most difficult color swap for that time of year—and then thirty-eight shades of blue, the number of competitions I’d won this year. I finished with a rainbow burst, and the judges waved their leaves wildly in congratulations.

As they wound the Victory Vine through my petals, a thought-projection came from the wings. We hope it was worth it. Miitica’s nursery-mates.

A group came for me after the canopy buds opened. As they tore my petals, I kept brilliant. And when it was over, I lay respiring heavily in a pool of sap, pollen-puffing in resignation.

When I limped into the hotel, Yuuna rushed to my side. Iiliia! What happened? Are you all right?

I thought-projected to the entire room, It was horrible! I was attacked. Please, fetch a… healer…

I wavered on my roots and collapsed under the bioluminescent chandelier. Yuuna trundled away—but I’d attracted attention.

A cluster of reporters covering the competition stood by the front leaf. They approached, and I let a drool of sap run down my peduncle. Oh, I moaned. It… hurts…

One bent down and slipped something under my leaf. When you’re healed, call me. Pollen and Pistil Monthly would love to have an exclusive on your story.

A second one brushed a wisp of pollen from my stamen. Purple Kaleidoscope has a bigger monthly readership—

Yuuna rushed back to my side. Give them room to respire!

As they shooed away the reporters, I let my flowers turn a pleased shade of crimson before fading back to brown.

JULY 9, 2018
Big progress today. Despite worries, experiment was complete success: walked under ladder with rabbit’s foot in hand, was missed by lightning strike on other side. Measured distance between self and scorch mark on ground: 2.7 meters. Weather report suggests lightning strike was likely, even before tests began; as such, near-miss should be considered instance of “good luck.”
Conclusion: rabbit’s foot marginally more potent than ladder. Will try again tomorrow outside local theater, while mentioning name of Scottish play.

* * *

July 10, 2018
Burns not so bad. Majority of bones unbroken. Doctors got heart beating again on third attempt—two better than last time. Nurses pleased to see me again, say they enjoy my enthusiasm. Asked Shauna to bring me black cat and four-leaf clover, offered to reward her handsomely. Got pudding instead.
Would not recommend.

* * *

July 11, 2018
Discharged from hospital today. Ready to resume research. Good-luck items left to test: four-leaf clover, leprechaun, wishbone, face-up penny. Bad-luck items left to test: black cat, indoor umbrella, Friday 13th, opened mouth of lion. (Note: call Africa. Place order.)
Recap of positive/negative luck values so far:
Rabbit’s foot: +12.
Walking under ladder: -10.
Mentioning Scottish play: -30.
Horseshoe: +7. (Only +25 for full horse; appears to be some sort of bulk discount here.)
Hospital pudding: -2. (Flavor appears to be non-factor; hence reasonably high rating.)

* * *

July 12, 2018 (1:00 p.m.)
Big day tomorrow. Friday. 13th of July. Must be ready in time—much to do today.
Due to time crunch, have tried cutting corners. Went to zoo this morning. Entered African habitat with can of spray-paint to turn lion black, thus conducting both “open lion mouth” and “black cat” tests at same time. Took all necessary precautions: approached slowly, did not wear gazelle cologne. Was mauled anyway.
Counting experience as instance of bad luck, despite zookeeper’s thoughts to contrary.

* * *

July 12, 2018 (3:00 p.m.)
Tests going well. 3/4 of all limbs still mostly functional. Never used left arm much anyway.
Leprechaun is last item on list. Having difficulty locating one on short notice, but am confident something will come up.

* * *

July 12, 2018 (7:35 p.m.)
Remembered that nephew is quite short and has affinity for magic tricks. Despite sister’s objections to research of this nature in past, went to her house to borrow child. Found nephew alone, convinced him to be spray-painted green. Added shiny black shoes to create reasonable facsimile of leprechaun.
Sister came home before tests could be conducted. Was arrested, spent two hours in jail.
Conclusion: spray-paint very unlucky.

* * *

July 13, 2018 (8:00 a.m.)
Big day. Stayed up all night reviewing recent data and running calculations from previous Friday 13ths. Have settled on equation to use during test.
Ready to start now. Have prepared all materials in picnic basket: 7 horseshoes, 1 black cat (non-lion), 3 face-up pennies (NOTE: DO NOT TILT BASKET), 2 spoonfuls hospital pudding (one for tests, one for caloric replenishment as demanded by tests), 1 rabbit’s foot (half spray-painted black, half covered in clovers), 4 wishbones.
Am prepared to mention name of Scottish play exactly 1.57 times. Truncating word and ending on “B” should create stuttering sound, like unexpected hiccup or escaped burp. Humorous.
Beginning test soon . . .

* * *

July 13, 2018 (1:36 p.m.)
Success! It worked! Have found absolute balance of good/bad luck. During experiment, lost three fingers when nearby logger slipped with chainsaw, but quickly sold disembodied digits to strange woman for exact amount of money needed to purchase prosthetic replacements. Perfect!
Very exciting time. Want to celebrate, but must watch and record long-term results.

* * *

July 17, 2018
Project was mistake. Friday 13th experiment appears to have had repercussions on universal level. Polarity of all luck reversed. Rabbit feet now carrying diseases. Riders of shoe-bearing horses developing leg-rash media have dubbed “thunderflush.” Face-up pennies reflecting sun’s rays and permanently blinding children. Leprechaun-themed cereal #1 cause of diarrhea in America. Etc.
Items previously considered to be unlucky have reversed charges as well, though general population seems unwilling to alter views on matter. Massive increase of bad-luck incidents has resulted in frightened citizens collecting (formerly) good-luck trinkets—rabbit’s feet, clovers, etc.—for protection. “Solution” only making problem worse.

* * *

May 14, 2019
Appear to be last man alive. Survival can be attributed to welded-open umbrella and constant recital of Scottish-play mantra. Silence throughout town is eerie, but solitude has offered time to work on current project.
DNA manipulation harder than anticipated, but am pleased with results. Have successfully bred luckiest creature known to man: black lion that shares several properties with hospital pudding and has loose familiarity with Shakespearean plays.
Plan on introducing lions into wild soon. Not sure what they’ll eat, but am confident in their ability to survive apocalyptic wasteland.

* * *

August 17, 2020
Hyper-intelligent lions have enslaved remains of humanity. Am currently in cell, awaiting trial. Public defender is leprechaun named Wishbone with face-up pennies in loafers. Confidence in acquittal is minimal.
Fully regret all experiments now; world is terrible place. Am vowing to never again engage in scientific pursuits, regardless of—
Hm. Just noticed lions’ science lab is located on way to prisoners’ exercise yard. Could potentially sneak in during afternoon recreation time.
New plan: will develop flesh-eating bacteria that latches onto pudding in lions’ DNA. Can see no way this could possibly go wrong—success is imminent. Project will be difficult, but can be completed with help of sharp wits, strong determination and able hands—and, perhaps, small amount of luck.

Note: an early and incomplete version of this column was presented at Nomadic Press’s GET LIT event in Oakland, CA, March 21st. Please support their mission of being a venue for the marginalized.

Many thanks to Christine No and Paul Corman-Roberts for allowing me to share a piece of this action. The tone here is a tad different than most other FXXK WRITING pieces. If you don’t like it, ask me if I give a shit.

After my mom’s death in 2013, my sister shared a memory of when I was seven or eight.

I was hiding in the basement bathroom trying not to cry and failing. She asked why the waterworks but I shook my head. She noticed something was amiss, climbed up the toilet and found the evidence I’d been hiding as if I was a third-rate criminal in a lazy pulp novel. In a corner best known for cobwebs and spider corpses was my report card.

“You were so scared,” she said. “Scared that the report card said you were stupid.”

1989. That year my grandfather, who was born in a log cabin in the icy doom of Thunder Bay and had won tuition at agricultural school via a grain contest and survived the Depression and raised a family with a variety of jobs (including guard on a prison farm, a failed feed business, and, lastly, selling real estate) had also told my mother (his ex-daughter-in-law), that her only son was a “useless” worker. It’s a long story, but I suspect he hoped Mom might take the hint and find a way to get me out of the malaise of my parent’s divorce. Big mistake! Mom read me the letter because the “truth” was important. Another big mistake! The truth I took away? I was stupid and useless, verified by both school and family.

That year I also ditched an English exam to watch re-runs of The Rockford Files at my mom’s nicotine-stained apartment; forgot to submit a year-long history report on . . . something historical; and, while I did all the experiments in science class that required fire, I don’t recall ever writing up a lab. My report card that year glared: English? “E.” History? “E.” Science? “E.” (in Canada, Es are fails, or so I was told)

(And now, some irony: I’m a writer, historian, and my doctoral thesis was the biography of scientists. Wait, wait, it gets worse!)

By administrative fluke, I ended up in high school without going to summer school, and when Dad asked for the dreaded report card, I lied and said the school was “mailing them out this year.” That September, he confronted me with my deceit. I reached under my bed and revealed more proof that I was dumber than a bag of hammers.

(Did I mention my father, the chemical engineer with the MBA, would later join Mensa, the Genius Club? I’d read their monthly newsletter, mc2rd, at breakfast, chewing Life cereal as I learned about heroin and how it changed your blood, convinced that this was as close as I was going to get to the Land of Smart).

Dad made it clear that he believed in me, and that these grades did not represent what I could do. For him, it was about application. I’d have to work harder. His final words, though, hit with the precision and power of a career boxer against a glass-jawed palooka. “I love you, but don’t you ever bullshit me again.”

I never did, at least about school.

Fall, 1995. Kurt Cobain has been dead for a year, my punk rock band, for which I’d sweated blood to make a success (and failed), just died, as had my grandfather. I’m a student at York University because I qualified for a near-automatic scholarship thanks to dad’s days in the oil business. I’m a history major because I liked the dramatic stories of war and revolution and, at least at Earl Haig Secondary School, I was pretty good at history… for “a collegiate” kid.

Collegiates were the local kids who, thanks to geography, were allowed to go to the now fancy pants school (Haig had once been a drugged-out haven of rockers and burnouts, a school for guys like me! But it was saved from destruction by becoming Canada’s version of Fame). But unlike those accepted into the Claude Watson School for the Arts, or the Gifted Athlete Program, or the just plain “Gifted” academic program, Collegiates had no special powers. Here, the great unwashed watched as others students were groomed to be the power elite of arts, sports, and commerce. Our destinies? Auto shop, teacher’s college, or someone else’s problem. Just one of many reasons I started a punk rock band.

As I’d promised my dad to work hard, I did pretty well by my final year, though I was convinced my successes were BS, earned not because of brains but because I was a fast talking, happy-go-lucky, hilarious and cute punk rock kid who got along with the ESL kids and my friends in Special Ed as well as the dancers, Olympians, and Einsteins. Charm, not ability, got me through the door.

Yet, there was a flicker of hope that, maybe, just maybe, I was smart, too, like my brilliant sisters who excelled in math or the arts. Perhaps family and institutions of learning had got me wrong. Perhaps I’d prove it at York, the school you attended if you didn’t get accepted to the University of Toronto (AKA the “Harvard of the North” which was both my mother and father’s alma mater). Granted, since I had neither advanced math nor language credits, I had to attend “everyone’s second choice” university and became a York “Dork.” Maybe here I would shine.

Dr. Kanya-Forstner, a world-renowned expert on French imperialism in Africa, complete with ascot, bullet-proof tenure, and the ability to pronounce “controversy” as “Con-TROV-ersy,” was the first real historian to assess my abilities. A guy who didn’t owe me shit, and never found me funny. During one tutorial (what Americans call seminars), he advised us that high schools had dropped their standards on university credits, so the universities were now in the awful position of accepting students… only to fail large numbers who are not yet ready for academics. Guess who thought they were one of the great mistakes?

If memory serves, my first paper received a C. The second, a D. But I recall the red lines of his cursive: “You need to learn how to write.”

Something cracked.

(And now, a sample of the sounds in my brain, 24-7, for the next six years or so.)

You’ve swindled, charmed, and bullshitted everyone into thinking you were smart, boyo, so well played, but your punk-rock class-clown routine is stale. You’ve suckered enough sympathy from the powers that be so that you could pal around the talented, the chosen, the people meant to do cool things . . . but the con is over. You are a certified, Grade A, can’t-write-for-shit dumbass, and your doom is nigh, fucker.

After my grandfather’s death, I often reflected on a shrink’s prediction about my glorious future back when I was thirteen. The nice lady in a pink dress who had my best interests at heart had said: “Jason could run away from home, head for the streets, and no one would hear from him again.” A prophecy?

The streets. Where failures go to die. I’d been trying to avoid that call to adventure forever. Still am.

Back at York, the flicker dimmed in the ivory tower. I considered pulling the lever and dropping out. Save money. Just work retail. But I had no band. No art. No smarts. No skills beyond helping high-maintenance beauty queens in a ritzy suburb find the latest Oprah Book Club pick at the bookstore where I’d been the “evening manager” (which sounds way sexier than it was). But could you do that forever? I stood upon a trapdoor. Below it lay the streets, above it a world telling me I was dumb, not cut out for the smart stuff.

What saved me were two words.

Punk rock.

Punk rock turned me into a professional musician at sixteen that played gigs near insane asylums and detox centers, forced me to learn how to make demos in the studio with a producer who played drums in a Deep Purple cover band (and had a deaf dog named Brewster!), and develop the conflict management skills of a career UN diplomat when negotiating the psychological warfare in play when your drummer wants to play hip hop and avant-guard post-punk but your Ramones-loving guitarist has a new found appreciation of Simon and Garfunkel (let alone the interests of your new bassist, who used to be a speed metal guitar virtuoso).

After much study, punk rock’s ethos bled into me:

The world is full of beautiful, talented, and “gifted” people. They have been chosen by schools, the media, and the rich to be Jedis, Playmates, and Rock Stars. They own success in every conventional sense. And they will never let you play with their toys.

So, fuck ‘em. You wanna be in a band? Do it. You wanna make a ‘zine and draw comics? Do it. Who cares if it sucks, if you succeed, if no one comes to the show? Do it. Who cares if you’re stupid, untalented, ugly, fat and fail? Who cares if you only know three chords and can’t sing and your drummer has chronic back trouble. Who cares? Success is not guaranteed, but wouldn’t you rather fail on your own terms than succeed at being someone else’s model of failure? Wanna learn to write? Work, mutherfucker, work and DO IT!

Punk rock didn’t care if I was stupid. Hell, it welcomed the freaks, geeks, and idiots of the world with arms open and fists raised. The Replacements, a band that was my church, taught me that fuck-ups who didn’t have a diploma or a driver’s license between the four of them could do incredible things. The ‘Mats said you didn’t need to be perfect, you just had to say “fuck you” to what other people thought and try, fail, try some more, fail, fail a lot, and keep going with as much fun, gusto, and guts as you got… but nothing happens if you’re just crying in the bathroom.

So, at York, when it came to writing, my mantra to all the Kanya-Forstners in the world was simply this-

“Fuck you. I will write, and make you eat my fucking words.” I just had to learn how. On my own.

And that’s when things get Faustian: because I could tell you about rising to the occasion at York, of the inspirational teacher, Jackie Buxton, who believed in my academic work (and yeah, like most, I had a crush on her) and how that kept me from dropping out, about being a civilian at a military college, of doctorates and books and stories published, because, like Henry Rollins has argued about his own life, I believe my punk rock attitude led me to develop a work ethic that saved my life and earned me success and survival when other support structures and dreams died.

But unlike most punk rock threats, my “fuck you” was externally silent. Internally?

I’d replaced fear of the streets for the battle cry that would not stop screaming at me.

And it was loud.

TO BE CONTINUED …

The Terrible installed a conveyor belt exclusively for her. It carried Invulnerabella along, wriggling helplessly toward the metalworks’s blazing furnace, her sinewy arms bulging against carbon-titanium cables. Her curse stole her strength whenever she was bound; the material was purely showmanship. His trap would immolate her in the same metalworks that had forged these cables. It was the perfect doom, better than all the other dooms he’d ever concocted for her.

“History will remember me. Not Dr. Ogre. Not Male Gaze. It was The Terrible who conquered you!”

She squirmed, cables grinding against her golden chest plate, her raven hair capturing the firelight. Watching gave him a knot in his duodenum. What was he supposed to do after killing her? He’d felt this dilemma for several dooms now.

“Well?” he chided, trying to get his mind off it. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Invulnerabella pursed her lips. The metalworks’ triple furnaces roared dully, and the Terrible cocked an ear for her final plea.

Instead, he heard Taylor Swift’s “Shake It Off.” Haters hating on loop.

Invulnerabella sat up despite the cables, frowning at the golden bracer on her left wrist. The song was coming from it, with a liquid crystal display.

He gaped. This was impossible. Where did she get the strength to bend carbon-titanium?

“Crap. The Kraken’s attacking East Bay again.”

She never swore. The Terrible had always thought she didn’t know how.

Invulnerabella groaned and laid back on the conveyer belt, still traveling towards the metalworks. She stared up at him. “Mercer, we need to talk.”

“Don’t call me that,” he said, fixing his gimp mask. “I’m The Terrible.”

“The citizens need me,” she said so sharply that he almost apologized. She was scary as hell when she was mad. Come to think of it, in all the times he’d captured her, she’d never been mad before. “We’ve talked about putting others’ needs before yourself.”

This had to be a ploy. He cackled. “You’ll have to beg harder than that!”

“We have to have made some progress in two years…”

“I can’t hear you!”

“Screw it.”

Invulnerabella squared her shoulders, thrust her hips up from the conveyor belt, and snapped the carbon-titanium cables like dental floss. One ricocheted at The Terrible, who was lucky the shock made him fall over. Otherwise, he would have been beheaded.

She dropped from the conveyor belt, dusting off her biceps. “We keep doing this. At first, I thought you were working through some issues. Then, I hoped after enough schemes failed, you’d have a breakthrough.”

“Impossible!” The Terrible hollered and hit a button on the back of his control-glove. Three more carbon-titanium cables whizzed from behind the metalworks and at the back of Invulnerabella’s head. She rolled her eyes and sidestepped, catching all three under her left armpit. With a single yank, she tore them from the machine and left them limp on the floor.

The Terrible remained floored, eyeing the hatch to his basement. He had a secret weapon down there but was still in shock that she somehow had her powers. “B-but you were bound!”

“Part of the problem is you never thought that was contrived. I don’t lose my strength when in chains, or under the full moon, and I was never vulnerable to eye lasers.”

“But Male Gaze–“

She stamped so hard the steel floor dented all the way to his hatch. “Took five months to figure out I was faking. Then Ricardo got better. You could, too, Mercer.”

“Call me The Terrible!”

“Ricardo runs a YouTube fashion channel now. Dr. Ogren teaches Chemistry. They’re better now. Almost all of my villains got better.”

“Better?” The Terrible scoffed, sweeping to his feet. “But I’m the best! The Master of Bondage.”

“The S&M community hates you. You give them a terrible image.”

She made for the window, presumably to go fight her Kraken, but The Terrible rushed into her path. He unzipped the mouth of his mask.

“I mean, I didn’t… It’s not that kind of bondage.”

She warned him off with a fist. “Used to be chainmail codpieces. Now this mask. In another couple plots, you’ll build power armor. Villains don’t come back from power armor.”

The Terrible wiped his unzipped lips. “All these years you were patronizing me?

“You guys came after me instead of the citizens. I cut crime in half by donating six hours a week to wrangling you all. You never even cared that I never died. I thought you’d be the first to get better, Mercer. Not the last.”

“The Terrible! And I don’t need help. I’m a master engineer–“

Taylor Swift sang from her wrist again. Invulnerabella sighed so hard the air could have caught fire. “I’ve got to go. If the Kraken is actually loose….”

He stared at her singing bracer. “It’s that bad?”

“It’s got so many tentacles, plus it straight-up eats civilians. You’re a sweetheart compared to that thing.” She shook her hair out, then turned toward the window. “You’ve got issues, but you can still come around. I want to believe in you.”

As she strode past him, her gaze softened, and she patted him on the shoulder. Imagining the Kraken devouring her gave him another knot in his duodenum.

Maybe for the first time in his career, The Terrible ensnared her without her expecting it–catching her wrist in his left hand. He tugged for her to pause, but she was super-strong and dragged him behind her for several steps.

“Wait, wait,” he said, scampering alongside her, though unable to meet her eyes. “Can I come?”

“If this is a diabolical plot–“

“I’m the Master of Bondage. No myriad-armed beast can escape me,” he declared, glancing at the hatch to his

basement. “Plus, I kind of already built that power armor. It’s got to work on somebody.”

“Constructive therapy.” She beamed. “Not a terrible idea.”

He extended his control-gloved hand to her, offering a shake. “For tonight, call me Mercer.”

Previously published in Daily Science Fiction, 2015. Reprinted here by permission of the author.

The shoes followed me, wagging their button-heels and giving out high-pitched little whines. I hadn’t called them, I hadn’t made eye contact – I mean, I wasn’t born yesterday – but I heard them back there. Busy rehearsing the next day’s presentation to the city planning board, preparing for the agenda-jumper I knew would derail me. I hadn’t noticed the pile of discards near the bus stop until it was too late. Thrown-out clothes, broken lunch boxes, incomplete board games — there they were, the shoes. And they saw me.

I went straight home. “Alison, you’ve got shoes following you,” my roommate Rhona said. “Should I let them in?”

“God, no.”

She peered out the door. “Wow, those look old, museum-old. Are you sure you–“

“I’m sure.”

I swear I could hear them whining outside while I tried to sleep. I needed a good night’s sleep, dammit; I needed to be primed for Dickson Selfer, self-anointed Expert of Everything, and his interruptions. But I could hear them. They would whine, then they would tap anxiously on the sidewalk outside my window. I couldn’t take any more. I let them in. They trotted into my room and lined up at the end of the bed.

They were pretty. The uppers were cream-colored leather, darkened to pale gold in the creases. Large flowers in blue, gold and brown, outlined with gold embroidery, covered their sides and the large square tongues. Low, tapering heels ended in what looked like rounded buttons. Rhona was right; they were museum-old, shabby and somehow regal. Rich, feminine, nothing like me. I wore neutral colors, kept my hair short, never wanting my appearance to distract from my message. Look-at-me shoes just weren’t, well, me.

I went back to bed.

The next morning I kept tripping over them. They followed me into the kitchen and nudged my feet as I drank my tea. “No begging,” I said.

Rhona, sitting at the table drinking coffee, said, “Someone’s got shoes.”

“No, I don’t. I just didn’t want them to tangle with the ugly Christmas sweaters in the alley,” I said, and it was true. Those sweaters could be mean.

Rhona gave me her polished Skeptical Look, one mouth corner and one eyebrow raised. Rhona’s a feral objects adoption assistant at a local shelter, so she knows a lot. She decided to change the subject though, because she said, “So, how bad is today going to suck?”

“On a scale of one to ten? Ten.” The presentation was for a proposed community park. Selfer, the Deputy Assistant City Planner, was our liaison. “The Dick will interrupt and agenda-jump, and somehow I’ll end up looking like a scatter-brained incompetent.”

“Nah. You’re the Queen of Competence, and everyone knows it.”

The shoes wiggled.

“They’re sure cute,” Rhona said. “Can I try them?”

At her words, they hid behind my legs.

“I guess not,” she said. “You should wear them. Maybe they’ll distract the Dick.”

“They look like they’d fit,” I said. “Is that how some of the things pick people? By size?”

“Usually people pick them.” Rhona stroked the dented stray pocketwatch she’d adopted. It ticked contentedly. Never-late Rhona. “Some objects pick folks, though. Like those shoes. You should wear them.”

“Too fancy.”

I got dressed and stood looking down at my inert, sensible flats. The stray pair stood in the doorway, quivering. They were pretty – more than pretty, they were elegant. Did one of them yip? I beckoned, and they ran over. They did fit, perfectly.

At the corner, a child reached for the blue lunch box in the gutter.

“Sweetie, we’d have to decide what to put inside it all the time.” Her mother, wearing the newest line of yoga gear, steered her away. “It’s too much trouble.”

The bus was delayed because the driver had to shoo off a flock of used coats that had tried to nest on the roof, but sooner than I wanted, I was walking into the conference room. “Great shoes,” a woman said as I headed to the front.

The Dick gulped coffee from his bleeding-edge, self-warming smart coffee cup, texting with his other hand. He didn’t look up.

“Good morning,” I said. “I’ll be presenting the –“

“Is this presentation going to cover the reclaimed water plan?” Dick said.

Wow, not even through my introductory sentence. I paused, my chest tightening. My feet suddenly vibrated. People in the front row looked up. Were the shoes growling? My toes tingled. “You have the agenda on your devices,” I said. “That should answer your question. The Lee Community Park–“

“I hope you’ve made some better decisions about the sports fields.”

Strength bubbled up through the soles of my feet like water from a spring. Without willing it, I straightened my spine. “Mr. Selfer, your board invited me to present the overview. I’d like to get on with it. You have details in your materials, and I’ve set aside time for questions and comments. Why don’t you try holding yours until then?”

“The sports fields–“

A chorus of shhh rose from around the room. “Stop interrupting all the time,” a woman from the city said. Was it the same woman who had commented on the shoes? I couldn’t tell.

“Yeah,” said a man near the back. “Just shut up, Dick.”

The Dick chugged a mouthful of coffee and scrunched down in his chair. After a second, I said, “Let me share our vision of the Lee Community Park,” and led them through the presentation. I did it elegantly.

The shoes sleep by my bed. I wear them out to walk around the block two or three times a week. And I wear them to certain meetings. The other day, at Rhona’s shelter, I adopted an old silk jacket, cream-colored with embroidered blue and gold flowers. It makes the shoes happy. And I’m happy. They’re good shoes.

Let’s face it; sometimes you need a laugh. Alternatively, a reason to look a little sideways at life.

There are few genres more challenging to write than humor, but in this issue, our authors elevated short fiction funny to a whole new level. Their styles vary as much as their main characters, but one thing is sure. Squeeze this pocket-sized read into your busy day, and we promise it’ll get brighter.

From S. L. Saboviec, experience the strangest, most histrionic flower show this side of reality television in “How the 576th Annual Pollen Festival Blossomed My Budding Career.”

In “Strays” by Marion Deeds, a pair of shoes adopts a new owner. You don’t have to be a diehard fashionista to understand the pull of a fabulous set of heels. Sometimes empowerment comes from the strangest places.

Returning FFO author, Zach Shephard brings “The Black Clover Equation.” The perfect formulation for good luck has never gone so unluckily.

Moreover, in his FOURTH April FFO appearance, John Wiswell returns yet again, this time with a superhero reprint, “The Terrible.” Originally published in Daily Science Fiction, The Terrible is not Mercer. (Really. Stop calling him that.) Locked in his epic Bad-Guy struggle against Invulnerabella, The Terrible just wants to use his power-armor. Is that too much to ask?

Finally, a new installment of FXXK WRITING by Jason S. Ridler. Silence and Stupidity Part I explores how punk rock saved his life…and taught him to succeed both at writing and life.

And since we’re NOT going anywhere, why not celebrate by helping us help another terrific publication that isn’t going anywhere — Apex Magazine? Check out our contribution to their Revive the Drive efforts.

Enjoy!

The Flash Fiction Online Staff