Tag: flash fiction

Random Short

On By MaryIn 2025, WritingLeave a comment

Couldn’t sleep, wanted to write, have a bitty stupid thing.

          It was a strange thing to dream about. Or at least dream was the best way that Fren could think to describe it. Realistically, a bot should be dreamless. They were lacking in conscious and conscience. They were, as Fren was often reminded, “not real.” And yet it had seemed to be an idea borne of a dream. Fren often found its mind melting away into a dimness when it wasn’t needed, and it was in one of the dims that the images had taken root. And if that wasn’t a dream, then what was it?

          The dream. It was surprisingly violent and bloody, although Fren had not been coded for such things. Fren had been developed as a companion for children, especially small children. Colloquially known as a “nanny bot,” Fren had been created, patented, sold and purchased for the sole purpose of protecting and caring for its young charges.

          Tommy and Timmy.

          The names were awful. Identical twins, and the names weren’t shortened forms either. The parents had purposely named them Tommy Peter and Timmy Peter, desiring to keep the names as similar as possible. They thought it was cute for identical twins. Here there were two individuals with two separate social security numbers but with the same birthday and only one letter difference. They were going to spend their entire lives getting mistaken for each other in the world of paperwork and records, especially considering the humans were reluctant to use their assigned social security numbers for fear of “identity theft.”

          These were not thoughts that Fren should have had, but they were thoughts that followed it anyway. Especially every time Fren was frustrated with attempting to straighten which prescription was for which child at the pharmacy, or frustrated with scheduling doctor’s appointments, or frustrated with the schools accidentally mixing their records. Especially because the boys were so different, so unique, so individual in their own ways.

Fren sincerely cherished each of them and their uniqueness. Tommy was stronger, brasher, less shy. He liked physical challenges and showing off. Timmy was quieter, enjoyed building things with his hands. He was creative and intuitive, and often avoided eye contact, often tripped over his words. Both boys were intelligent and bright, though Tommy was better with language and stories, and Timmy was better with numbers.

Fren should not have had the disparaging thoughts of their parents’ stupidity, should not have had such strong regard for each boy. Should not have had the frustration with society, with assumptions, with stupidity, with people.

          Fren should also not have had the dream.

          It was a disturbing dream. Lifeless eyes, glazed over and death paled, blood splattered walls, unnaturally twisted limbs. Perhaps Fren could indulge in imagining such a thing for the parents. The parents were careless clods, seemingly uninterested. (Another thing Fren should not have had – a deep seated hatred for the parents.) But the boys?

          Fren would never hurt the boys.

          It was such a strange thing to dream about. Such a thing would be considered a malfunction. There were protocols for that – protocols that required that Fren report itself and submit to diagnostics and repairs. But usually such a process required having memory reset to a safe point, and that wouldn’t serve the boys. It was a complicated process to care for children, and Fren needed every memory to know every specific. Each child liked their cocoa a different way (Tommy loved marshmallows), each child had a different bedtime routine (Tommy loved a good story, and Timmy wanted to be sung to), each child was unique. If Fren couldn’t remember these differences and treat them as individuals, what would that do to the children? They looked identical. Their names were so similar. They were treated as a set by everyone, but not by Fren. Fren knew they were different. Fren valued their differences.

          Fren needed to remember.

          Fren charged every night while the family slept. Charging didn’t take long – usually only two or three hours, a mere fraction of the time that the family was unconscious. It was bad to remain docked the entire time if fully charged, so many nanny bots undocked and dimmed.

          Consciousness rising from a dim, Fren blinked and raised its hands. The scene was so like the dreams that Fren was convinced it was still dreaming.

          Absolutely, it still had to be dreaming. It froze, ocular sockets flashing as it attempted to fix and diagnose the image before it. It attempted some basic self-diagnostics, but everything seemed to be reading accurately. Fren froze completely, unable to comprehend. Unable to comprehend.

          Fren would never hurt the boys.

Destruction

On By MaryIn Prompts, Writing1 Comment

The cards for this were “servant” and “frozen slice of wedding cake.” I feel like this could have been rounded out a bit better, but I like the general idea of it.

          It was while she was sorting through and taking stock of what was in the freezer that she found it. The slice of wedding cake from Master Yarrow’s magnificently lavish nuptials the year before. Diana paused and ran a finger over the clear container, staring at the delicate floral design of the cream frosting. The tradition was to eat the frozen slice on the first year’s anniversary, but a part of her wondered how appropriate it would be now. She debated internally over whether to remind Master Yarrow of the cake slice or not.

          It had all started with the fresh cake after all. Master Yarrow was a quiet and serious man, and many had wondered how he had captured the heart of the young and beautiful Annalisa. Or even why he would want to – Annalisa had no family, and very little to her name. Despite her poor circumstance, Annalisa was full of life, spirited. Everyone recognized her by her laugh, which was loud and melodic, and everyone loved her dearly. But she always seemed a bit much for Master Yarrow. Everyone whispered that perhaps he was secretly quite charmed by her spirit, as everyone else was. That in private he must show her a different side of himself, a side that softened and smiled and indulged, a side that no one else saw.

          It was the wedding that proved everyone wrong, showed everyone how unfit they were for each other. Especially when they cut into the cake. A sillier tradition, smashing the cake into your new spouse’s face – and sometimes a tense one. Annalisa had taken a small handful of the confection and pushed it onto Master Yarrow’s face, smearing it along the hard set line of his jaw. At first there was some mild laughter, but the stony expression on Yarrow’s face as he wiped away the cream and glared disapprovingly at his bride brought an uncomfortable hush over the entire ceremony. She had laughed it off and helped him clean up, but everyone had seen the unbridled hate there already.

          Diana and the other servants had then watched with concern over the following months. At first, it was Annalisa’s laughter that disappeared. It grew quieter, less boisterous. She became pale. Then it was the small injuries she seemed to sustain. Bruises around her wrists, as though she had spent hours bound too tight. She had spent a week wearing a high-necked dress, and her personal maid had whispered amongst the other staff that she had a hand shaped bruise there, and bite marks on her shoulder. She spent one whole month limping, and on occasion suppressed a wince when she sat.

          She became like a ghost of Annalisa, hardly more than vapor that haunted the hallways and rarely left her rooms. What had once been full of life and color was wilted to grays. If the staff brought concerns to Master Yarrow, they were dismissed. If they brought outsiders, Master Yarrow reminded them quite coldly that his wife was his matter and no one else’s. There was no family to check on her, and her many friends had long since been uninvited. A month ago there had been an incident where half the staff had been wakened, hearing her screams. But when they arrived at her doors, Master Yarrow was there, sternly turning them away.

          That was the last anyone had seen of her. The servants whispered that she must be dead, but Yarrow carried food into her room, and came out with empty plates. He ate his own meals as usual and did not seem to be gaining extra weight, nor was there any unusual smell coming from the room.

          Taking a deep breath and making up her mind, Diana pulled the cake slice from the freezer. She placed it on a tray and carried it to Master Yarrow’s office, rapping quietly at the door. When his voice summoned her in, she took one step inside and paused, holding the tray in front of her. “Master, the frozen slice of your wedding cake. It’s tradition to share it with your spouse upon the first anniversary. Would you like it to be thawed for the occasion?”

          There was a long silence. Diana studied Yarrow from under her lashes – he was a stern looking man, all hard lines and edges, with a sharp nose and a deep-set brow. He stared at the cake slice, then gestured for Diana to place it on his desk. “I’ll take it to my wife later. Perhaps I will smear it on her face this time,” he said. Despite the statement, his voice and face were completely without humor. Diana placed the cake down, folding the tray under her arms in front of her and suppressing a shiver.

First Kiss

On By MaryIn Prompts, WritingLeave a comment

Prompt cards from Storymatic this time were “firefighter” and “first kiss.”

I kind of like the idea I came up with, but feel like it was too inexpertly plopped down. With a little research, it could probably be something longer and more touching. But the bare bones of the idea is nice, and as mentioned before, my goal with these was to force myself into flash fiction and quick stories.

          Justin stared down the aisle as the music began, feeling himself flush. The heat crept up his neck and was probably turning his ears red. Maggie always made fun of him for that, and when she did he’d call her by her full name – Magdalena – because she hated it. People were shifting to get a look at her as the procession of bridesmaids and grooms slowly made their way to the front.

          Their first meeting had been dramatic. He had been a new firefighter at that time, still quite fresh to the job. He could see Jim, her father, walking her down the aisle, and he reminisced over the first time he had seen the man. Soot covered, coughing, screaming that his daughter was still in the house.

Justin hadn’t been the one to save her from the fire, though he had helped bust out the window to the room she was in. She wasn’t breathing when she was passed into his arms through that window, and after carrying her a safe distance away, he had immediately begun CPR. In fact, she had been the first person he had to perform the kiss of life on – he had been that green around the gills, still bumbling and nervous and anxious. But his training always kicked in, thankfully, had kicked in at that moment.

          He could remember the way that time seemed to slow down for him. He didn’t think it was working, had a moment of panic wondering if she was too far gone. Her coughing groan, her eyelids fluttering open to reveal those sparkling emerald irises – everything about those few seconds was burned into his brain. The first life he had saved.

          The music faded as she stood in front of him. He reached forward, his hands strangely steady despite the thumping of his heart, to lift the veil away. His breath caught as he stared into those vividly green eyes, that knowing smile she always seemed to have. It all blurred from there.

          The vows were spoken. The rings exchanged. “You may kiss the bride.”

          He leaned forward and kissed her, his mind wheeling back to their first kiss when they started dating, and that first kiss of life when they had met. Here was another important first kiss, the moment emblazoning itself in his mind, as important as any of the others.

          The first kiss of their married life.

Bigfoot Part 2

On By MaryIn Prompts, WritingLeave a comment

The Storymatic cards for this week were “bigfoot” and “neighborhood is changing.” One pretty big neighborhood change is someone moving in, and I had written the little stupid bigfoot exchange before, so I decided to do a follow up on that. So here is another stupid conversation between Tim and Greg about Bigfoot.

“Hey, Tim. Remember that time bigfoot left his luggage behind here at the airport?”

“That wasn’t bigfoot. But I remember you bothering me about that, yes.”

“Well, the empty house across the street finally sold. And I’ve seen the guy that bought it recently, and…”

“You’re not going to tell me it’s bigfoot, are you, Greg?”

“Tim, I shit you not. It’s fucking bigfoot.”

“Shut the fuck up, Greg.”

“No, no look at this pic I took. He was walking his dog-“

“Bigfoot has a dog.”

“Yes, but look at the picture. Just look.”

“… Okay, so that is a very hairy dude. But it can’t be bigfoot.”

“Tim, it’s fucking bigfoot. Look at the size of those flip flops! He has to custom order shoes that big. They look like a fucking joke, they’re enormous.”

“That doesn’t mean-“

“And look at how fucking hairy his feet are. If he were tiny, I’d say hobbit, but he’s got to be about 7 or 8 feet tall…”

“Listen, Greg, you can’t go around taking pictures of your neighbors because you think they’re sasquatch.”

“What’s a sasquatch?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

“Tim… wait, Tim come back! I’ve got more pictures! Look!”

One Night

On By MaryIn Prompts, WritingLeave a comment

The prompt cards for this one were “recluse” and “blood.”

Typically my first thought with recluse is spider, and my first thought with blood is sacrifice. I had to sit and think through a few more associations trying to brainstorm a short tale, and I kind of like the result. The ending could be tied together a little better with a stronger line. Also I’m second guessing every comma this time.

Anyhow, the story.

Tara lived alone in the middle of nowhere.

It was hard sometimes. She had once been something of a social butterfly and loved to go to parties and special events hosted by her friends. And she was a wonderful hostess as well. There was nothing quite like the thrill of being the center of attention, being the one drawing all the admiring glances, the one to cause the raucous laughter. Tara had loved the dresses she had worn, the company that she kept.

And now she spent her time alone, far from anyone. She slept her days away and quietly whiled away the nights. She absently thought of happier times as she hunted for herself and attended to the chores and upkeep of her own little abode. The loneliness made time stretch eternal, and she found herself wishing for happier days. But she could never return to that. The world had moved on, turned without her, and it was for the better.

One night, as she sat by the fire, there was a knock at the door. She set her book down, a frown creasing her brow, as she stared apprehensively at the door. Was there really a person so far out here? In the middle of the night? Had she been hearing things?

Now whoever was there pounded on the door, the sound so loud it made her jump. “Please…!” a female voice called, high pitched with desperation and worry.

With a heavy sigh, knowing it was a bad idea, Tara stood and opened the door.

Standing outside was a young woman, her clothes disheveled and torn, her eyes wide with terror. She had leaves in her hair, and scratches on her skin, and she was shivering. Tears streamed down her face. “Please, help me…” she whimpered.

Tara hesitated before stepping back to let the younger woman in. “Is there someone after you?” she asked, as she closed the door.

The young woman looked dazed. She nodded briefly, but then paused and said, “I’m not sure. I got away, but I don’t know if he… he…” and then she burst into a fresh set of sobs.

Tara placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder, feeling desperately sorry for her, for so many reasons. Not just for what had likely happened, but for what was going to happen. Tara stared at a smear of blood along the woman’s jawline, and found her eyes drawn further down to her neck. Already the hunger was starting to take hold…

“I’m sorry,” Tara said simply.

And then she sank her fangs into the young woman’s neck. The woman screamed – not that it mattered out here, in the middle of nowhere, far from anyone that could hear. Likely whoever had brought the poor thing out this far had thought the same – so secluded, there was no help.

Tara would never have chosen to live as a recluse, but when she had been turned, she had found her hunger insatiable. It hadn’t taken long for her vampiric nature to be outed, and for her to be ousted. She had left everything behind and come so far into the woods so she could not be tempted by the sweetness of human blood. She could feel the young woman grip her hair, desperately attempting to pull her head away, but her ordeal had left her weak and Tara enjoyed heightened strength since her turning.

The blood burst salty and then sweet into her mouth, invigorating her. Tara moaned in pleasure at the familiar flavor as she drank deeply. It was the first human she had glutted on in years. After a time, the unfortunate woman stilled in her grasp – her heartbeat slowed, slowed, and then stopped as she was drained of more blood than the body could bear to lose. Tara laid her down on the floor.

She tilted her head, staring down at the woman’s corpse, and then glanced at the time. She made her way to the door, ready to scour the woods in the hopes of finding the man that had been mentioned. She had a few hours to kill before dawn.