Flash Fiction: Vol. 1, Issue 2
The Suit
Joe Conat
Its embrace is cold. Not just on my skin; in my mind.
::”Interaction with ‘the Suit’ can have unintended initial side-effects. These may include: distraction, fear, emotional distancing, loss of …”::
Yes, thank you, I read the manual. Feedback level = 2.
It’s like we’re two people, though the Suit lacks an identity as we understand…
::… Model CES-100T, Unit M10XXA12-362, software V 3.12…::
Feexdback level=2!
How long is my tour?
How long until I can escape?
How long until I am me?
::…remaining time-of-service = 17 years, 4 months, 13 days …::
Feedback level=1!
Why won’t we shut up?
Intermission
Kajsa Wiberg
As the few, spread-out spectators brought their hands together in applause, the genie on oboe stared bleary-eyed ahead.
Empty. He felt empty, as empty as the opera house. The only thing emptier than his heart was his wallet. Then the curtain fell for intermission and he didn’t have to look at the misery any longer.
“Wanna grab some beers afterwards?” asked one of the house ghosts–the one on piano.
“I can’t,” sighed the genie. “I don’t have a fucking dime.”
“I’ll lend you some,” the house ghost suggested.
“Nah.” The genie stood and headed for the bathroom.
Pouring cold water through his hands, he surveyed himself in the mirror. A little floaty and see-through still, but mainly just gray. It was how he’d been ever since the heron left him. Every day a little less genie and a little more stone. If this didn’t stop, he would end up in a sidewalk one day. And the heron would step on him.
His left hand slid down into his pocket. The bag was there; his safety blanket; the one thing keeping him alive. Tearing it open and cramming a handful of goji berries down his throat, he prayed he would never run out. That the grayness would never finish what was left of his soul, leaving the house ghosts short an oboist.
Revitalized but still not alive, he floated back to the stage and settled back down by the oboe, under the giant banner advertising “Soho’s Invisible Orchestra.” He nodded at the house ghosts and watched the curtain rise. Only half the audience from the first act remained. The genie stiffened a little more with each empty seat.
The oboe went silent ten minutes from the finale. It crashed to the floor, landing next to a tear-shaped pebble. Apart from the house ghosts, no one either noticed or cared.
Paley Loitering
Gar Lipow
You’re turning aren’t you?” It was obvious; gold hairs threading among the black, brown eyes fading to green. The skin had grown paler and more translucent, and begun to emit an odor of violets.
“Yes, I’ll be one of the fey soon. That won’t stop us being friends, will it?” Hints of birdsong underlay the voice.
“You’ll be trying to kill me. I’ll have to hurt you with salt and iron, at the least, to prevent that.”
The birdsong beneath the words was nightingale sad: “I suppose that IS the way this works. But we don’t have to let it end our friendship, do we?”