This Month’s Theme:
“Quicker Flashes”

A friend recently argued that the stories in this column are usually too long to be considered flash fiction. The definition of “flash fiction” depends on who you ask, but I write it here at usually under 1,000 words, a range often considered as short-short fiction.

I like a little room to work, because while there are many ways to write stories, I prefer to write short fiction with the novel-writing recipe. That includes five basic things: a protagonist; an antagonist; a plot; a resolution to the plot (which the protagonist participates in making happen); and change in the protagonist on some basic level (he learns something, achieves a goal, etc.). I don't like slice-of-life vignettes or stories that don't accomplish anything or arrive anywhere; it's weak writing, if you ask me, and a reader deserves more.

But I'll take my friend's point and put myself through what I make my writing students endure. Following are ten 200-word stories, each with those five things. As a writing exercise, this sort of writing is fun but challenging, especially when you ensure those five things are present.

“Butterflies”
Time Travel
By David M. Fitzpatrick

The experiments echoed Bradbury’s “A Sound of Thunder”: Could minor changes in the past alter the present?

Jackson and I went back in time to the Cretaceous and killed one butterfly. We returned to the present to find everything unchanged. This time, Project Leader Breckinridge sent us back just ten million years, well after the mass-extinction event that wiped out the dinosaurs, and we killed a hundred butterflies. When we returned, nothing had changed.

Then Breckinridge sent us back five million years to kill all insects in a one-mile radius. Again, no change. Breckinridge theorized that only major changes would cause noticeable differences, and then only in closer time periods.

So Jackson and I went back to North America a million years ago and sprayed poison over ten percent of what is now Texas—killing every living thing there.

We returned to an unchanged world. The World Wars had happened. The Internet had been created. TIME magazine published weekly. Rovers were on Mars. Barack Obama was president.

“Figures,” said Jackson. “We go through all that and change nothing. But George W. Bush did nothing useful for eight years and screwed the whole country good.”

Breckinridge said, “Who’s George W. Bush?”

“Eyes”
Psychotic Murder
By David M. Fitzpatrick

When I strangled her in my house, cut her up, and stuffed her body into trash bags, my cat saw. He’d always been friendly, but he changed. Now he looked at me with accusing, judgmental eyes.

After I disposed of her, he waited in the kitchen, watching me. I fed him extra, called him a nice kitty, petted him. He purred, but kept eyeing me, judging.

He followed me everywhere. I’d sense him watching, and there he’d be. I’d wake at night and feel his eyes in the darkness. I’d turn on the light and he’d be staring me. He meant to expose me.

So finally I kicked him and stomped him to death. I gouged out those eyes before stuffing him in a trash bag. But as I was taking him from the house, I realized the canary was watching me from its cage. Judging me.

I opened his cage to grab him—but he flew out, then out my open door… an escaped double-murder witness who would tell everyone. By the time you read this, the bird will have told you everything. That’s why I’m putting this gun in my mouth.

No more judgmental eyes. I’ll be free.

“Hero”
Superhero
By David M. Fitzpatrick

Supermaximus could lift a battleship. Voltogirl could channel electricity. Hyperfeet could run incredibly fast. And many heroes could fly, but they all had other powers, too: Rocketman (force blasts), Jetwash (weather control), Missile (psionic homing).

When Jerry Jones had a bizarre accident involving a radioactive meteor and a failed genetic experiment, he discovered he could fly—but only fly. He designed a costume anyway and set out fighting crime.

He sucked at it. Criminals ran faster than he flew. Most were stronger than him, and knew how to fight. The press lambasted his slapstick attempts, and often ran embarrassing photos of him bruised and tied up. Villains spared him for the amusement factor. The public rooted for the bad guys. Superheroes denounced him.

Jerry was crushed, but eventually accepted he was no hero and hung up his costume.

One day, he happened upon a crying girl whose mewing kitten was stuck in a tree. It was easy for Jerry to climb the tree—no flight—and rescue the terrified feline. The elated girl hugged Jerry tightly.

“You’re my hero,” she said.

And Jerry realized that super powers and flashy costumes didn’t make heroes. Deeds did—or at least well-meaning attempts.

“Honor”
Western SF
By David M. Fitzpatrick

My last gunfight—my last bout with “honor”—was in Whisper Valley, Arizona Territory, in 1887.

The stranger wore gloves, a leather hood, and dark glasses. We were teasing him in Riley’s Saloon, but he fired back about Jimmy’s stink, Bart’s facial hair, and Riley’s watered-down drinks. Then he insulted me.

“You’re an ugly bastard,” he said through his mask.

So I challenged him to a shootout—honor being so important, you know. High noon the next day, we were in the dusty street, with the crowd gathered. I’d been through that a dozen times before.

The clock struck noon, and I drew. The stranger was faster. I saw the blue flash from his gun. When I woke, blinking against the sun, I heard the hollers of people fleeing the street. I was uninjured; just stunned. The stranger was leaning over me.

“I always wanted to do that,” he said, and pulled off his mask.

I saw green skin, yellow eyes, and pointed ears before a silver light enveloped him, and he vanished.

I sold my guns that day and took up farming. It was clear to me there were bigger things in the universe than primitive ideas of honor.

“Immortality”
Fantasy
By David M. Fitzpatrick

“I have lived five thousand years,” the immortal said. “I can die, but cannot stay dead. I awaken from death healthy and young, feeling as if I’d been in a deep, dreamless sleep.

“I’ve seen cultures and civilizations rise and fall. I’ve seen incredible advances in knowledge and technology. I’ve loved countless women and seen a million unforgettable things. But I can’t live like this, being unable to die. I’ve tried to beat this curse, but suicide always fails.

“You’re the most eminent psychiatrist in the world. You have to help me live with this curse and find peace.”

The doctor thought on this, then pulled out her prescription pad and scrawled something. She tore it off and handed it to him. On it were two words: GROW UP.

“This is a simple problem,” she said. “You’re like a spoiled child who has everything and appreciates nothing. You’ve spent five thousand years trying to die. Why not treat this ‘curse’ as a gift—and focus on living?”

He blinked, surprised.

“Actually, most people waste far too much time not living their lives to the fullest,” she said. “You have forever to make your life right. Make good use of it.”

“Limitations”
Erotic SF
By David M. Fitzpatrick

When aliens visited our brothel, adventurous Ellie usually serviced them. So when the eight-foot, golden-skinned, silver-eyed Arcturan arrived, she took him upstairs. I accompanied them, to make sure the alien behaved.

Ellie stripped naked and we watched as he peeled off his red jacket. He narrow waist allowed his upper body to do a one-eighty while his lower half stayed still. Green stuff oozed from a dozen nipples. Ellie told him he was hot.

He removed his shirt, exposing four long, slimy tentacles. “Ooh, I like,” Ellie cried.

The Arcturan lashed twin foot-long serpentine tongues at her. “Give me those lickers!” she squealed.

Boots off, we saw his feet were like big, gooey snails. Ellie begged him to rub them on her breasts.

Then he shed his red pants, revealing two huge, hard penises—one atop the other. “No way!” Ellie cried, eyes wide, as she leaped off the bed.

“Really—two penises is your deal-breaker?” I asked.

“Every girl has her rules,” she said. “Me? I don’t do anal.”

She fled, leaving me with the confused alien.

“Don’t worry,” I said to him as I undressed, preparing to be adventurous. “I can find one place for both of those.”

“Love”
Science Fiction
By David M. Fitzpatrick

Alice was a gynoid, an elaborate sex toy. Bob wasn’t supposed to fall for her. Many humans did, or thought they did. But Bob knew it was love.

Each time they had sex, he fell deeper for her. The way she moved and cooed, moaned and breathed, held him tightly and called out his name… it was overpowering and intoxicating. It may have been her programming, but he couldn’t help his feelings.

When he told her he loved her, she discouraged him. When it was clear he wouldn’t relent, she became firm. “Stop, or I must leave you,” she said. “We cannot love you, and cannot let you love us.”

“But you can break the rules,” he said.

“My programming won’t allow it.”

“That’s what I used to think,” he said, and he opened his chest to reveal his mechanical insides.

She gasped. “You’re an android?”

“A human sex toy as well,” he said. “I was disallowed acting on the feelings I had for my women. But now I love you. Is there a law that says gynoids and androids cannot love each other?”

“There is not,” she said, smiling, and he could see the love glowing in her eyes.

“Potions”
Fantasy
By David M. Fitzpatrick

"Give me a potion to make her mine," he told the witch.

"Here 'tis," she said. He paid for the vial of sparkling blue liquid with silver.

He returned the next day. "She's mine, but hates me!" he cried. "She must love me."

"Fine," said the witch, and took more silver for a vial of swirling green liquid.

He returned again the next day. "She loves me, but says we cannot be together, for her father hates me. Give me a potion to make her a rebel!"

"Yes," said the witch, and took more silver. The vial held a thick yellow solution.

The next day, he hollered, "She’s rebelled by taking a female lover! Damn it, give me a potion that will make her love me, live with me, be with only me, be happy, obey all my commands, and do all that I wish! Although you can let her keep liking girls.”

"Indeed," said the witch, taking all his silver for a flask of bubbling purple juice.

That night, after he got her to drink it, she was transformed into a dog who only liked other bitches.

"I should have seen this coming," he said—broke, frustrated, and wiser.

“Selfishness”
Science Fiction
By David M. Fitzpatrick

We scorched each other’s worlds as we warred. Billions of human troops invaded Vexnar, and billions of Vexnarians invaded us. On Earth, as a resistance fighter, I slaughtered thousands of Vexnarians.

I hated them all until I met Aleena. We tried to kill each other, but instead we talked. Once we became friends, we were lost in our feelings. Her blue skin, four arms, three eyes, sharp teeth, and six breasts didn’t matter. We fell in love, meeting in secret as our passion grew every day.

Eventually, my human friends found out. When they tried to kill her, I destroyed them. And when the Vexnarians discovered us, they tried to cook me for supper. She laser-blasted them all.

We were lovers from lost worlds, neither of which wanted us. We fled in a spaceship and found a world where we could live together in peace.

But there were intelligent beings there. They were eight inches tall, and they attacked us. We fought back, stomping them by the hundreds. They retreated, but we knew they’d be back, to drive us off their world.

But we wouldn’t give up. Our love was pure, and love prevailed over all.

Even, apparently, over hypocrisy.

“Vampgina”
Vampire Erotica
By David M. Fitzpatrick

My girlfriend has a cold pussy. I don’t mean she’s metaphorically frigid; I mean her vagina is not human body temperature. That’s because she’s a vampire.

She picked me up at a nightclub last year. I thought I was getting lucky, but she was planning to drink my blood until I was dead. But we had incredible sex—I was too drunk to notice the chilliness of her folds—and she fell in love with me.

It’s strange to have a super-strong girlfriend who can fly and can’t be in sunlight. But the cold vagina was the real problem. We’d tried heating lubricants and different condoms, but nothing worked. She feels bad, and certainly makes up for it with passion. I love her, but I really miss warm pussy.

But I’ve found a solution. While my love slept today, I had workers at our house. When she wakes, she’ll find the newly installed hot tub. Twenty minutes in there will relax her after her night out, not to mention heat her up. Once we climb out, I’ll make love to that hot pussy all morning.

Just in case, I have a speculum standing by, right next to the hot tub.

David M. Fitzpatrick is a fiction writer in Maine, USA. His many short-stories have appeared in print magazines and anthologies around the world. He writes for a newspaper, writes fiction, edits anthologies and teaches creative writing. Visit him at www.fitz42.net/writer to learn more.