Issue 33 June 2016 Flash Fiction Online June 2016

Money

The fifty-pound notes are pink and crisp, straight from the cash machine. They still feel warm as I hand them over.

The man I’ve come to see slips them straight into his desk drawer without counting them. At first, I think I must have a trustworthy face, but then I remember he’s an empath. If I were trying to cheat him, he’d know.

He grins, and I wonder if he can read my mind as well as my heart. Or maybe there’s no real difference?

I take off my gloves and fold them in my lap. “Octavia McNeill. We spoke on the phone this morning. I’m here for emotional redirection.”

“I remember. And it’s a straight transfer you want, is it? From A to B?”

“Yes. I want to stop — to stop —” I pause and take a breath. “You see, my son, Charlie, he — he was only twenty-six, and he — he—” My voice cracks, and I have to break off again.

Johnny Kellard nods. “It’s okay. I’ve got the gist. So, where do you want it to go? Person or object?”

I like his brisk, businesslike manner. There’s no sympathy or judgment here, just a straightforward commercial transaction.

I wipe my eyes and sit up straighter. “Object, if that’s all right.”

“You’re the boss,” he says and takes my hand.

Douglas Robert McNeill

We did love each other once. I know that. We probably still do. But without Charlie, I can’t help thinking, what’s the point?

He doesn’t understand, when he finds out what I’ve done. Literally, doesn’t understand, so I have to explain about Johnny Kellard and the abilities he has. The services he performs in return for rolls of warm, pink banknotes.

Doug is disbelieving at first, then horrified. Then angry.

Coward, he calls me. As if grieving is somehow a brave thing to do.

It’s not. It’s not something you actually do at all. It’s something that happens to you — a black hole you fall into, a dark void that sucks out all the air and light from the world.

Is it such a bad thing, to want to climb out?

Family Photograph in Silver Frame

Charlie was twenty when we had this taken; old enough not to mind being hugged by his mum again. Doug is slightly to the side of us, but he’s smiling too. We look good, all of us; healthy and vibrant and young. I think Doug might have touched it up a little on the computer before he had it framed.

It’s been facing down for a while because I couldn’t bear to look at it, but now it’s back where it should be. Now I can admire it — admire Charlie — again. He was such a handsome boy.

I know, intellectually, that I loved him. I haven’t forgotten that, despite what Doug thinks. My memory is fine. It’s only my feelings that have changed. And no, even that isn’t true; all that love, that tenderness, that joy — it’s still with me, it isn’t lost. It’s simply been redirected.

Key Ring in the Shape of a Banana

“That’ll do fine,” Johnny had said when I showed him. “Plastic’s good because it lasts forever and isn’t valuable. You don’t want anything that’s going to break easy, or get stolen.”

It had taken me longer to choose than I thought it would. I drove myself half crazy trying to decide whether it should be something that reminded me of Charlie or not, and in the end, I simply grabbed the first thing that came to hand in the ‘might want this someday’ kitchen drawer.

It’s cheap and ugly, and I have no idea where it came from — maybe out of a Christmas cracker? — but it’s perfect. Small enough to take with me wherever I go, and definitely no temptation to thieves. And the most important part is, as Johnny says, that it will last forever. Plastic doesn’t die.

So yes, I think it’ll do fine. It’ll do just fine indeed.

Peace

I withdraw more crisp fifty-pound notes and wonder if Johnny Kellard will be surprised, or disapproving, to see me again — if he’ll have advice for me about dealing with my problems in a more constructive (or at least traditional) manner.

He doesn’t.

He also doesn’t query my new redirection request or my choice of object, even though a bag of cremated human remains doesn’t exactly conform to his guidelines. I shouldn’t really be surprised, though — there can’t be much about human nature that would shock someone like him.

“So,” he says, “do you want to shift everything or just the bad stuff? I mean like anger, resentment, disappointment—” A glance at Doug’s ashes. “Guilt. Remorse. That kind of thing.”

Considering the nightmare our marriage had turned into by the end, I doubt there’s anything but bad stuff left. Anger, resentment, and disappointment, oh yes. By the bucketload, as Johnny might say. The other two, though? Not so much. I suppose I should feel guilt over Doug’s death, technically speaking, but I’m not sure I do. And remorse? No. Definitely not.

Still, better safe than sorry.

I remove my gloves and hold out my hands. “Take it all, please.”

“You’re the boss,” he says, and I nod. I am.

When we’re finished, I stand up. Despite everything, I half expect him to hold out the ashes and say, “Haven’t you forgotten something?” as I put my gloves and coat back on.

He doesn’t.

Instead, what he hands me is a leaflet. “Special discount voucher for good customers. Fifty percent off your next visit when you recommend a friend.”

When I pause at the door and look back, I see him drop the bag of ashes into a bin by the back door.

“Thank you,” I say, and tuck the voucher into my purse.

The morning after the storm, Carlotta climbs onto her roof with a mug of orange tea and looks over Hialeah Bay. It stretches, glittering, to every horizon. The waves swept the flooded yards and streets of chemical slicks and litter. The winds blew away the stench of moldy homes and rotting plants. And the rain gave a good scrubbing to everything left standing. Carlotta takes a deep breath and revels in the bright blue calm until she hears an airboat roaring down 17th Avenue.

Not scavengers, she thinks. They don’t use the streets to navigate, knowing the area well. The grocery boat came through three days ago, the tinkers won’t reach her block for a week, and Homeland Security could care less about Gladeville. They’re probably busy keeping looters away from the pass-throughs and floating resorts on the remnants of Miami Beach. The boat slows at the corner so the pilot can check the signpost, then it glides down her street with two little girls and an old man aboard. Carlotta can’t believe it. Tourists. Already.

She puts down her mug, clambers to a chest and yanks out a paintball rifle. One shot’s all she usually needs to send these vultures flying back to their own troubles. Carlotta peers through the sight. She aims over the girls’ heads and finds the old man staring at her. She blinks and looks again. It’s her father. She fires.

He ducks, shielding the girls. The paintball hits the pilot, who swears and starts to bring the boat about. The old man snaps his fingers and points at Carlotta’s house. She fires again, knocking off his sunglasses. The girls scream, the pilot shouts, but her father jumps out and sloshes toward her, red paint dripping down his cheek, the rising tide beating at his thighs.

No sense wasting more paintballs. Carlotta unpockets a pistol and levels it at her father’s heart. He doesn’t stop. She doesn’t fire. Beside the stump of her mailbox post, he says, “Your sister’s dead, gorda.”

Carlotta lowers the pistol and looks at the girls. “They hers?”

“Ours now,” her father says.

Carlotta laughs. “Clever hustle, Papi. Sick, but clever. Get in the boat. I’m not leaving.”

Her father pulls a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolds it and holds it up.

Carlotta reads it through the rifle sight. A death certificate. Luisa’s. She lowers the rifle.

“I can’t raise them with your mother gone,” he says.

“What would you know about raising children, right? Find another wife.”

“I found my daughter. Finally. I need you home.

“You know what I’ve learned out here, Papi?” Carlotta waves her pistol across the bay. “Home’s just where you are. Until you’re not.”

“Home is where they send one of these.” Her father snaps the paper at her. “If you die out here–“

“When.”

“If you die out here, I won’t get even this. You’ll just float off and disappear.”

“I already have. You should’ve left it that way.”

“I won’t let you go, gorda. Not while I can stand.”

Carlotta laughs again. “Look around. You won’t be standing much longer. Might as well get used to it. Same way I stood my childhood. Got used to it and waited for the end.”

Her father smiles. Carlotta shivers. She’s given him an opening.

“Is that what you want for your nieces, then: me?” He taps the paper against his chest. “I still work late. I still get angry. I’m still a cabron.”

Carlotta looks at the girls. They look at their hands. She did that too when her father looked at her. So did Luisa.

“Leave them here,” Carlotta says.

“No. You’ll live at Luisa’s. I haven’t sold it. I did have it cleaned.”

“‘My children. My rules,’ you used to say.”

“I also said, ‘Don’t be stupid.’ That shack of yours won’t last six months.”

“We’ll move then. There’s plenty of places to squat. More each day. Wherever you call home, it’ll flood too, soon enough.”

“No,” her father says. He shakes his head. “No.”

Luisa lifts her chin to keep from looking at her hands.

Her father flings the paper aside and trudges to the boat.

Carlotta calls to the girls, “Lo siento.” The little one raises her hand just enough to wave. The big one slaps it down as their grandfather crawls into the boat. He snaps, and the airboat roars off.

When Carlotta can’t hear it anymore, she goes back to her tea. It’s cold, and all she can see of the bay is the paper floating away, waving like her niece’s hand. You should get it, she thinks. For their address. Just in case.

Fast as greased weasels, two decks of cards flew from Knox’s scarred fingers and blurred before the crowd into a fifty-two page flipbook. Knox smiled, the breeze from the furious cards waving his Mohawk.

“Lads and Ladies,” Knox said, “any dime-store magus can stretch a balloon into a giraffe, but how many can make a ship of cards?”

They gawked at the ship of diamonds, the King and Queen of Hearts at the helm, and the Jack of Spades swaying on the sail of clubs.

All gawked but Crystal.

Snap! They were in the deck and back in his trench coat pockets as the applause began.

“No coins please!” Laughter followed and then cash. “Now, chums, hold still for some quick draw magic!”

He threw back the trench coat and revealed two white holsters, each filled with purple pistol handles. “Soap is for the dirty. How would you buds like to see authentic smoke bubbles?” Lightening quick, he drew the pistols and fired high. Hiss! Frosty mist jetted toward the sky. The smoke tangled itself into a dueling spiral before Knox snapped the pistols back in the holsters, inhaled the smoke deep in his cheeks, cracked open his lips, then flicked his jaw with one bony finger thirteen times. Thirteen smoke bubbles popped out of his mouth, smelling of snow, floating side by side. Knox clapped and the bubbles burst into letters-

NO COINS PLEASE

Applause rose as cash dropped into his box.

“Cheat!”

Crystal adjusted her Magi Academy uniform and dusted off her All Star badge on her left arm. “That’s grift magic, chicanery. You’re a charlatan.”

Knox smiled. “Indeed. My Daddy was Knox Charlatan Senior. I’m Junior. How about a rose for a smile?” He shoved both hands into the folds of his arm pits and returned them full of two wands. He smacked them together and they burst into one fully formed purple rose.

Smiling, he handed it to her.

The crowd gawked as the Crystal snickered, arms crossed. “Did that hurt?”

“Only if you don’t accept this gift!” Weak laughter and no money dropped.

She nabbed the rose. “Magic is supposed to hurt. That’s how you know it works.”

Knox grimaced. “Who dropped those wisdom bricks on you?”

She snorted. “Every teacher. Every book. Magic without a price is illusion. And that’s what you’re peddling. You people are being ripped off. Now, this is magic.”

Knox raised a hand of concern, but her eyes shut and her mouth incanted. The purple plastic shone white, fluttered, then settled on green as thorns burst from its stem and the petals softened to red fibers. A real rose.

She sniffed, then coughed a silvery taste. “See? Can you do that? Well, how about this?” She pressed the stem to her lips, fingers on the thorns, and began to play a bloody sweet tune. The petals turned to purple moths, vanishing on the wings of notes as blood stained the money in his box. When the tune ended, the rose died. She dropped the stem in his coin case, stomach rumbling, smug and satisfied. The crowd took their money back, and patted her on the shoulder before vanishing into the street.

“You’re very good.” Knox said.

“Better than a fake,” she said, wheezing.

“Give me your hands.”

She recoiled but he kneeled to reduce his imposing stature. “Does the great magus fear a street charlatan’s gift?”

She sniffed, and showed her bloody hands palm up.

Tears ran fast from his face to her fingers. The wound closed and her breath eased as the blood stains evaporated. Darkness deepened under his eyes as if he’d done ten rounds with battering ram, while her cheeks were rosy and breath clear. He grunted. “They don’t tell you that you can bleed out the mana, cripple your talent, until all you have left is a few petals to share to those in need. And a few memories of what it meant to be top of the class.” He opened his eyes. “And the latter ain’t worth a damn.”

He stood, turning his back, wheezing hard. “Better run back to school, magus. The bells in the Shadow Tower will soon be calling you to alchemy. And I have an afternoon’s gig to prepare for.” He coughed hard and phlegmy, spine curved and shaking. On his back was an old, torn Academy All Star badge, weathered worse than his face. He walked sore and steady as the bell in the Shadow Tower rang.

Previously published in Flashquake, 2009. Reprinted here by permission of the author.

“What do you do?” is a normal question that is now a pain to answer. When people find out I’m a military historian, crime and horror and fantasy novelist and short story writer, graduate school adjunct, freelance non-fiction writer and writing teacher, and professional (insert laugh here) improv actor and sketch comedy writer/actor who is best known for novels about pro wrestling and videos about an insane British professor who does one minute lectures on things like sirens and flips, the look on their faces is akin to that glassy stare that infects the eyes when a math teacher asks you to solve the problem on the board, the one you’ve been ignoring by doodling Ninja Turtles beating up Glen Danzig in the margins of your notebook.

Granted, it’s also a long way to say “I’m poor and America is broken!” (rimshot!), but I digress.

When they regain their composure, many begin to play a game called “Advice I Never Asked For, From Someone Who Doesn’t Know Anything.” Because if there’s one thing people are experts in, it’s advice on other people’s lives and careers. Here’s the advice I get most often.

• Just write novels. That’s what sells. Short stories have no value to novelists and waste precious time (even though I’ve made more cash in short stories than novels thus far). That’s your currency.
• Just write military history. Your doctorate makes you unique (as unique as the thousands of other PhDs running around looking for any work in their field). That’s your currency
• Just write military fiction. Your doctorate and your fiction writing, that’s what makes you unique (except I don’t want to and find most military fiction heinous and hate-filled boy’s own power fantasies). That’s your currency. 
• Just don’t waste your time with things that aren’t your currency.

Just fuck off. Seriously.

Most advice comes from people who don’t work in any of your fields, or . . . “currencies.” Most advice comes from the POV of the consumer who thinks of themselves as tastemakers who know how the world works, or other variants of the dilettante observer of the cultural marketplace. And I bet some people mean well with this junk, but, as Oscar Wilde noted, “All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling.”

But for most who offer bottomless amounts of advice, I detect an ounce of baiting for future Schadenfreude. When the success they expect of you, with their advice as the secret ingredient, of course, fails to materialize, they get the sweetest and laziest satisfaction, the ultimate cake-and-eat-it-too for those who aren’t anywhere near the fucking kitchen: “See,” they say,  “if Jay had only done as I’d told him, he would have been a success. Such a shame. And he works so hard, poor dear!”

So, allow me the salacious opportunity of giving you bad advice! Let me relish in your future failures with “Dr. Ridler’s Top Five Must Do’s and Do-Not-Do’s For Succeeding like a Porn Star in Writing and the Arts! 100% Satisfaction Guaranteed (unless you screw up my perfect suggestions, which you will, so it’s on you, dearhearts!)”

1. Be Born Rich, You’ll Be Glad You Did! Why choose poverty when starting life with every material advantage is the route of winners? Hire “people” to take care of cleaning toilets and making food, and focus on what Destiny has chosen for your calling: making art while the less fortunate service your every need. Namaste!
2. Marry a Sugar Momma or Sugar Daddy! Operators are standing by to make your lifelong dream of staying home and servicing the needs of your patron lover while scratching out time to dabble in experiments with your fantasy series about a person who is NOT LIKE YOU winning against the odds IN A WAY YOU DID NOT!
3. Buy Every Self-Help Book Ever! Much like the lottery, you’ll just have to keep buying them until you find the one that has the philosopher stone for making your shittacular existence into the cosmic daydream that a benevolent god wants you to have . . . so long as you buy the right book!
4. Only Listen to the Advice of Someone Whose Success Happened Ten, Twenty, or Thirty Years Ago, Especially at a Convention! Ignore the changes in the workplace environment, ignore your own experience, ignore everything that seems to indicate the system is rigged, because Larry the Bestselling Guru, who actually doesn’t produce any new work and just lives off the mad cash of the inspirational tour circuit selling the illusion of change to a hungry audience starved by hardship, once-upon-a-time wrote a thing that did well (best done in conjecture with #3!)
5. Only Listen to the Snappy New Gurus of the Past Five Years! You know, the people who sell classes more than books, or succeeded against the odds in the Kindle world of ebooks or youtube stardom and think they’ve cracked the code on how their success, which is a non-repeatable condition of talent, effort, and chance, is actually a formula for you to follow if you just buy their workbooks and come to their seminars and share their brand like a chain-letter.

Whatever you do, only listen to people who reinforce your preconceived notions! Telling you different is just selling something!

NEXT MONTH! Dr. Ridler’s Top Five Reality Checks About “Surviving” in the Arts (and the use of irony!)

Chin up. Breathe through your nose. Raise your eyebrows slightly, focus on a point in the darkness. Roll those shoulders back. Show off your good genes, prove that it was only bad luck that landed you here. Tighten your ass, stretch your neck as if you’re suspended from the ceiling by an invisible thread. But look natural, never forced.

And for god’s sake, smile. Not the too-broad grin that shows teeth and desperation and the mania of a thousand miserable nights crammed into the charity house. Nor the tight-lipped smirk of Nurse Huang as she cranks another fifty cc’s of Andox into your bulging foot vein to quell the night sweats and the bad dreams. And not the sad, hollow smile of your peers. Do not let the truth betray you. Today could be your big day. With the right smile and a bit of luck, you could go home with a Parent.

Don’t shield your eyes when the sliver of light fractures the darkness and grows into a blinding maw. Blink if you must–tears are a sign of weakness.

Maintain your poise as the Parents glide in. They’re different. Frightening. Their bodies are gnarled and wrinkled, hunched as if a tremendous force threatens to snap their spines. Their fingers, bony and mottled with lesions, scrabble at the controls of their exoskeletons. They drift like ghouls, toes grazing the floor, buoyancy engines humming. Their faces are cracked and translucent, pulled taut like bat’s wings pinned to spreading boards.

But don’t stare. What Parents lack in beauty they make up for in affluence. In a cruel twist of fate, their wealth has betrayed their bodies. The failures of their exorbitant genetic treatments have manifested in their bones and their reproductive systems. They sought longevity, immunity to the atmospheric pollutants and the toxic waters and the cancers that plague the Earth. But their treatments rendered them weak and sterile. They are a wealthy class without children. A nation in need of heirs. Herein lies your golden opportunity.

Never make eye contact. Deference is the key to a Parent’s heart. One day, if you are chosen, your Parent may ask you to look them in the eye. They’ll yearn for connection. They’ll crave companionship. They’ll search for a piece of themselves in you. But to force such things upon them during the judging period is off-putting, frightening even. A frightened Parent translates to another lost opportunity for you. Another year inside working sixteen-hour days to compensate the charity house for what could have been a lucrative contract buy-out.

The Andox should keep you upright throughout the judging period, so long as you don’t lock your knees. If your appetite swells, remember your instructions. Swallow shallow breaths, tighten your abdomen to prevent audible evidence. Do not allow yourself to be swayed by the scents of nectar and syrup that trail the Parents. The lingering aromas of their breakfasts are not yours to relish, nor will they ever be if you allude to malnourishment. Parents seek healthy girls and boys capable of providing enduring love, not products that require maintenance.

When a Parent pauses to study your vitals, be proud. You’ve captured their interest. It’s OK to feel unworthy because you are. A child of the polluted streets, festering in this sordid brood, alive by the grace of charity alone. You’ve been here before, passed over many times already. But never let it show. Parents are shrewd. They can spot the difference between a fresh smile and one haunted by a hundred shattered almost-futures. Always be fresh.

When a Parent is accompanied by a servant, never acknowledge them. In the unlikely event that the Parent chooses you, there will be time to conspire later. Parents must never suspect compassion for those less fortunate than themselves.

When a Parent graces you with a question, answer it quickly and with as few words as possible. The quality of your response is important, but their time is infinitely more so. Every passing moment is a reminder of their failed attempts at longevity. The scientists hang by their necks from rafters outside shuttered laboratories, but such recompense does not grant a Parent access to the years they were once promised. Timely responses to their questions prove your understanding of the injustices that have befallen them.

When the boy at your side crumples, clutching his cramping stomach and writhing on the tiled floor, do not waver. When you spot traces of foam on his lips, do not blink. When his eyes turn bloodshot like crimson spiderwebs from the Andox overdose, offer no sign of recognition. This is his battle, not yours. And when Nurse Huang drags the boy away, clamped to a stretcher with restraints and bleeding from his ears, remember that all wars have casualties.

Maintain your smile. Keep your chin up. Focus on that point in the distance. Temper your own stomach cramps–you’ll have time to vomit later. Regulate your breathing. Exhibit contrast to your fallen brethren.

This is not betrayal. He had his chance, and so did you. You were stronger. Parents value strength. Parents love a competitor. It reminds them of themselves, always fighting to add years to their glorious lives. The nearby candidates that blanch, that look upon the boy aghast, that succumb to sympathy retching–they will not be chosen this year.

But you. You’ve tamped your reaction and quelled your fear. You’ve proved that you have what it takes to make it in this world. Patience. Guile. Ruthlessness. The qualities of a winner. Every Parent loves a winner.

And every Parent is a fool. Before you step into the light, remember your secret pledge. One day you will inherit this withered world. When the Parents have passed into their graves as all things do, rise above their folly and the folly of all the Parents before them. Return to lift up those that have fallen, those that could not smile.

We will be waiting.

With apologies to our readers in the southern hemisphere: Summer is here!!

Double exclamation mark, swimming pools, vacations, the sun in your eyes, hot sidewalks, summer.

My first summer tradition is already taken care of. I’ve read Ray Bradbury’s Dandelion Wine for the umpteenth time. I’ve walked the ravine with Douglas Spaulding, fumed over never-mown grass with Grandpa, ridden the time machine with Colonel Freeleigh, rescued Mme. Tarot from the junk heap. Bradbury passed away four years ago this week.

If you’ve never read Ray Bradbury before, I’m afraid I must chastise you. Mr. Bradbury is an American icon. A must-read for anyone who appreciates fine literature or who loves a well-told story. 

Most see Bradbury as a science fiction author. He was that, but so much more. Bradbury wrote. That’s all. True, many of his stories could be easily categorized as science fiction. Just as many, however, could be labeled as fantasy or even mainstream. But what makes Bradbury stand out from his peers is the way he put words on a page. He was an artist with words, a master of phrasing, a storyteller with a flair for manipulating the English language to form literary treasures.

“We are cups,” Bradbury once said, “constantly and quietly being filled. The trick is, knowing how to tip ourselves over and let the beautiful stuff out.”

Beautiful stuff. That’s what we like to put on our pages.

This month we have some exceptionally beautiful stuff–all speculative fiction of one sort or another.

First, a foray into future dystopia from Flash Fiction Online alumnus Derrick Boden, “A Winner’s Smile.”

Next, a heartbreaking urban fantasy piece, “A Partial Inventory of Things I Have Loved,” by Michelle Ann King.

From author Stephen S. Power–whose first novel, The Dragon Round (Simon & Schuster), hits bookstores next month–we’re pleased to present “Mamita,” a near-future science fiction story.

Lastly, a reprint from our staffer, Jason S. Ridler–“Charlatans and Magi,” which first appeared in the Summer 2009 issue of Flashquake.

Happy summer, and happy reading!