Issue April 2011 Flash Fiction Online April 2011

I had secured an empty compartment. Something in my blood makes me rush for an empty compartment. I suppose it is because I am a Briton, yet it was another Briton who intruded upon my privacy.

At the first glance I saw that he would talk to me about the — well, what do you expect? I can always tell when men want to talk about it. Would that I had the same subtle instinct when they wish to borrow money! I was ready for him. If he said, “Have you heard?” I was going to answer, “About the Secretary of State for War ordering Lord Fisher to be imprisoned in the Tower as a spy? Why, my brother-in-law told me all about it last week.”

Instead he put his hand on my knee and asked, “Are you a German?”

“Unless I am descended from Hengist or Horsa,” I replied, “there isn’t an atom of culture in me.”

“Then I can confide in you. A disturbance is advancing in this direction from Eastern Europe.”

“You mean that the Crown Prince is retreating towards us from Poland?”

“No,” he snapped. “And another disturbance is coming from the vicinity of Iceland.”

“Good heavens! This is too much. At my time of life how am I to learn how to pronounce Pzreykjavik.”

“Let me tell you what I prophesy for the next few days. Saturday will be bright.”

“Splendid! A cheerful week-end will do us all good.”

“Sunday will be gloomy, and on Monday will come the downfall.”

“William’s or ours?”

“Accompanied by strong south-westerly winds, rising to a gale, and a rapid fall of the barometer. So now you know. My mind is easy. I have told someone. I have been cruelly censored — only allowed to predict just wet or fine from day to day. I felt that I must tell someone. The Censor and Count Zeppelin between them were killing me.”

I pitied the agony of the professional weather forecaster. I promised to respect his confidence. I left the carriage proud of the fact that I was one of the two men in England who knew what Saturday’s weather would be. That is why I left my umbrella at home while apparently every other man took his out. It is also the reason why my new topper was ruined. And now I wonder whether the prophet was mistaken, or whether at the last moment he detected signs of culture in me and lied.

The Sun sucked in her gravity, drawing the planets taut about her waist. It’d taken far too long to bead them all onto her 1-dimensional strings. She wasn’t giving up now. Planets shuddered from the strain, beaded so tightly that they really didn’t fit, bulging on her solar flares.

“I think they’re just too small to wear,” said a random moon. “Perhaps as earrings?”

“Shut up,” said the Sun. She was very conscious about her weight. “I’ve been hitting the elliptical. I’m downright svelte!”

The planets made an extravagant belt, unlike anything else in the cosmos. She’d collected all the flotsam in her solar system, including Saturn, Uranus and Neptune, all of which had their own belts (though those were made of ice and asteroids). The planets shuddered from forced orbit, straining to stay in place.

The moon worried. “Yeah, but you’ve been hitting the fusion more than the fission lately. They might not fit like they used to.”

The Sun rotated until she faced this moon. She did not move often, so it was very intimidating.

“Are you calling me oblate?”

“Absolutely not,” said the moon, shaking its head, not that you could tell since it was spherical. “You’re petite by star standards.”

“Of all the insensitive…”

She yanked harder, trying to clasp the end onto Jupiter. Its red spot would make a spectacular belt buckle. Unfortunately it was only a gas giant, and her hook slipped through. In one terrible moment, the Sun’s grip gave. The planets sprayed across space, only rolling to a stop because of her latent gravity. Seeing the planets fall back into orbit around her enormous mass hurt almost as much as the belt breaking.

The random moon had no choice but to follow its planet. The last thing it saw was the Sun letting out a sulking starburst.

Time passed. We’d say years, but with all the planets wobbling, solar revolutions weren’t exactly reliable markers of time. The Sun left her planets strewn out there, too discouraged to make them fashionable anymore. None dared tidy their own gravitational flotsam into belts, leaving little celestial bodies drifting wherever they wanted.

The moon approached her at the next solar eclipse. It consoled, “Call it an avant garde belt. You’re setting a trend. All the stars are doing it now.”

They both knew better. Most of the cosmic lights were arranging their planets in this fashion now, but the Sun had grown distant from them. They might as well be white dots on her horizon for all she cared. And since the breakage the Sun had put on even more mass, eating out of depression. She’d swollen up into a pudgy yellow star.

“Whatever,” she said, fusing some hydrogen crumbs into helium.

The moon revolved, frowning at its earth. The Sun’s rays poured down over one of its sides, bathing the little blue and brown thing. It was filthy, covered in its own chemical stew. It made no attempt to clean itself up.

“Who knows?” The moon said, pushing the planet’s tides around a little. “Maybe something will pop up down there and take your mind off things.”

When you start this meditation, keep in mind that you’re not doing it to feel alive, or relax, or avoid decomposing. You should simply experience whatever is going on in your corpse. From moment to moment.

Gently focus your full attention on your breathing. Maybe you can find a hint of a breeze going past your nose. Maybe you can feel a slight twitching in your solar plexus. Or in your stomach. It may just be maggots, or bubbling pustulence, but that’s okay. Focus on that reminder of breath wherever you find it. Feel whatever is happening, without prejudice, without fear. From breath to breath.

During the meditation you may find that your focus slips away from your breathing. Perhaps your mind travels back to when you were alive. Perhaps you’re contemplating revenge for your murder. Or how to haunt your mother-in-law. That’s perfectly natural. The dead mind likes to wander. And remember: They are just thoughts, and you can let them go when you want to.

Now try to expand your focus outward from your breath to your entire corpse. Perhaps you can imagine that your breath is a flow of energy spreading from your solar plexus. All the way down to your feet. And all the way to your scalp. Let your attention spread out with every breath. Notice what is happening in your feet. In your legs. Your knees. Your arms. Never mind if some of your limbs have fallen off. That’s perfectly natural. Just focus your attention on whatever happens. From moment to moment.

Maybe you’ll find your muscles twitching. Maybe your fingers will clench. That’s okay. Nothing you experience is wrong.

Perhaps you’ll find an urge to stretch your arms towards the sky and bang the lid above you. Turn your full attention to the feeling in your hands, your knuckles, your arms. Feel them break through the rotting wood. Feel your breath flow through your corpse as your fingers claw the earth away.

If your attention slips away from your breath, it’s perfectly natural. You may wonder what it’s like to walk the earth again. What has happened in your neighborhood lately. If the love of your life is seeing someone else. That’s okay. You can always refocus your attention on your breathing. And on digging.

Maybe you feel the fresh air. For now, experience how the wind feels on your face. Your arms. Perhaps you can climb out of your grave. Feel the wind on your legs. Knees. Feet. And feel whatever is going on in your corpse. From moment to moment.

Now shift your focus from your body to your brain. Perhaps you can picture the wind passing in through your nose and mouth. Feel it drift into your head. Feel your brain. It may have maggots squirming around, but that’s okay. There are always new brains to be had nearby.

Try saying it out loud. Brains. Brains!

If you want to shamble across the graveyard, it’s okay. Try repeating this meditation as you shuffle along. You will have more company as you leave the graveyard and explore the neighborhood. More and more. From moment to moment.

GREETINGS LOWER CASE BOY

proud to be at your side captain lets check the grammarphone for messages

TROUBLE DOWNTOWN ITS THAT NO GOOD DUO COLON AND SEMICOLON CAUSING MAYHEM AGAIN

when will they learn its just not right to conjoin unrelated subjects

QUICK TO THE LOGOMOBILE

there they are captain and it looks like theyre trying to get away

:Too late: You’ll never catch us; we have an escape clause

HOLD IT RIGHT THERE YOU TWO

:Here is what can stop us: Nothing; nada, zip

i think we need some help captain

YOURE RIGHT LOWER CASE BOY

?Did somebody call?

question mark? thank goodness youre here

:Whats this? Our nefarious schemes are foiled: He has backup; help, aid, but we are not finished yet; or are we?

THANKS MARK

?What would you do without me?

!Not so fast!

EXCLAMATION!!

?What are you doing here?! I cant stop him taking over!!!

!Time to die Captain! And your pathetic friends!

this looks bad captain!! the mighty exclamation gets stronger the more we resist!!!!

!You can never win!! I grow more emphatic by the second!!!!!

QUICK!!! WE NEED TO SLOW THINGS DOWN!!!!!!

,Don’t worry Captain, I heard, just now, you were in trouble, I’m here, and so is Apostrophe

COMMA GIRL, AND APOSTROPHE, YOU’RE JUST IN TIME!

!No! You’re ruining the tension, I can feel myself wasting away: Come on colon; lend some immediacy, please? I’m losing energy, and pace, can’t you, two, do, something?

you’ve done it Comma, but they’re getting away

?Shall we follow them to their lair?

GOOD IDEA, MARK

there they are

WAIT, ISN’T THAT…

…That’s right Captain…predictable as usual…You fell right into my little trap! I knew you would come…

?But that’s…

it’s…ellipsis!

…Yes…and now you are in my Fortress of Aposiopesis, you will never leave….Ha…Ha…Ha….

?What will we do, Captain?…Captain…?

NOTHING WE CAN DO, MARK…ELLIPSIS…SAPPING…ALL…ENERGY…

quick, comma girl, apostrophe…before it’s too late…

,We, need, something, to end this…now…

?You mean…?

IT’S…THE ONLY WAY…

!Ellipsis! Stop them!! They’re going to…

:The one thing to put an end to our plans: an end; a conclusion…

…They wouldn’t dare…It will finish them too…

FULL STOP.

that was a close one, captain.

ELLIPSIS IS GOING AWAY FOR A LONG, LONG TIME.

,Thank goodness we had this new paragraph, or we’d be done for too.

?But wait…Ellipsis is breaking free! How did she escape…?

…Fools! I’ve been dealing with periods since I was a child…Come Hyphen, let’s show them some real power…Time-stretching…

…WHAT’S HAPPENING…?

…

time…passing…so…slowly…captain…your toolkit! isn’t there…something…you can use…

…

?He’s right…Look…

…

…OF COURSE! MY BRACKETS!

(…)What? Stop that! (…) No, wait! (…) You can’t (…)

,It’s working, Captain (…) Time’s speeding up again.

MAYBE A LITTLE TOO FAST (…) FEELS LIKE WE’RE MISSING SECTIONS.

let’s take these miscreants back where they belong, captain.

THEY’RE IN FOR A LONG, DIFFICULT SENTENCE.

Every year, we get some submissions that just seem a little out there. April, the month for fools, seems to be a good time to let the best of them get some ink. It seems that two of our fools are also favorites of ours: Michael Aaron and John Wiswell have been published before in our pages, the former with a not-quite-sword-and-sorcery tale called “Numbers Game,”, and the latter with the hilariously offbeat “Alligators by Twitter.” Writers sometimes get a little close to their content, and that seems to have happened in Michael’s case. But he’s not writing about writers, or writing about writer’s block, as so often happens. Punctuation takes on a life of its own in “CAPS LOCK and the Ellipsis of Doom.” (Of course, proofreading this story was diabolical, but Michael is enough of a pedant — or so he calls himself — to get every jot and tittle just right.) Our second story comes from Jakob Drud. I wasn’t looking for zombie material, really, because so often it’s so campy — but there’s something that just works in the campiness of “Meditation for the Dead.” I love the title, too; a brilliant choice, invoking an idea of religious meditation while meaning something quite different. John Wiswell’s title is similarly red-herring-esque. “Sun Belt” is about geography only in the extraplanetary sense. My favorite line? “I’ve been hitting the elliptical.” When you’re looking for classic humor, the venerable Punch is one of your best resources, and I lean on them heavily for our Classic Flash feature. This month, in honor of April and the wacky weather we’re getting (it’s snowing in upstate New York as we go to press), I’ve resurrected “Another Ruined Trade” from November of 1914. The dry wit with which it’s delivered — right through to its inevitable ending — is classic in every sense of the word. For you writers out there, don’t forget to check out Bruce Holland Rogers’s latest Technically Speaking column. You don’t have to trust him — he’s a professional liar, after all — but if you want to lie well, that’s the kind of person you should be emulating.