Rick’s Flash Fiction

plasma-ball

These stories a little longer than my power shorts, but shorter than short stories.

 morning-glory-pool

Morning Glory Pool

The sign says this is Morning Glory Pool in Yellowstone National Park. But is it the edge of the forest, or the edge of eternity? A wishing well, or a gravity well?

When I visited, no one else was around, so I jumped in for a quick dip. I played with fate and tried to dive as far down as I could. I can tell you, hell indeed hath a fury far exceeding a woman scorned.

When I emerged from the drink, I was just upriver from Hoboken, New Jersey. I grabbed the first woman I saw and married her straight away.

When she furies like a woman scorned, I smile and kiss her and tell her that her fury is nothing compared to…and you should see how mad that really makes her!

We have never visited Yellowstone together. And I think we never will.

March 6, 2013

 Shadow Man

Shadow Man

The ageless shadow was distraught. The website was blank. Where a photo of St. George’s Bloomsbury in London should have appeared, a blank field of black mocked the shadow instead. The short paragraph under the missing photo describing the church as having a steeple inspired by the Mausoleum of Halicarnassus in Turkey gave the only hint that the website was in fact the one the shadow was looking for.

The shadow had expected to see the family resemblance in the way the shadow of the statue of George I, having stood atop the steeple for over three hundred years, fell upon the buildings opposite the church. It would prove his claim once and for all that he was the only legitimate living heir to the throne of the Kingdom of Shadows.

The blank screen bore witness that the Shades of Charon had bested him yet again. But the shadow would get his revenge–as a shadow always does.

March 2, 2013

 Tricorne_hat_beaver_fur_c._1780

Alabaster Army of Arctica

The Alabaster Army of Arctica stands by to descend on the flats of Hematite.

Having depleted their once-vast deposits of hydrated iron oxide for its yellow ochre pigment, the sartorially sensitive albinos of Arctica have risen in rebellion. They will not stand down until their guilded leaders of government secure the infinite supply of their sacred, garish limonite in the ferrous land of Hematite. And by secure, they mean by any means necessary.

Hardened by the Thirteen Years War they successfully waged against the furry residents of Beaver Falls (by which they forced from the defeated flattails a guarantee of unlimited access to beaver pelts for their tonsurous tricorne hats), the Alabaster Army of Arctica stands ready to ensure domestic tranquility by trampling all over the tranquility of the domiciles of Hematite.

Forward, you gypsum juggernaut! The world is at your feet.

Forward, you white-wigged warriors! Their women are in heat.

No, really. Go, hurry. We can’t start laughing till you’re gone!

January 25, 2013

 wtf_skip If Only

She said.

But we didn’t like what she said.

Then she said.

And we liked what she said the second time better.

Then Clover said.

And I told Clover to not say such things to her.

He asked why.

I said why.

She told me not to talk to Clover that way.

I asked why.

Clover said why.

I told Clover what he could do with his stupid plaid coat.

She said.

Clover liked what she said, but I didn’t. I didn’t like what she said, but Clover did.

Clover said and she said. Clover said and she said in unison.

I told Clover what he could do with the rope.

She said. Clover said.

I didn’t say anything.

I left.

And they lived happily ever after.

December 19, 2012

 battery

Emerging Context

Out of context. Everything begins out of context. Everything begins out of context at least with respect to itself. From its own frame of reference. From its own point of view.

Out of context until something emerges to give it context. A detail. A broad stroke. A battery.

Then the context grows. The context and the emerging details grow and develop a context around the thing. At least with respect to itself. From its own frame of reference. From its own point of view. A jar.

But does the thing grow? Does the thing grow within the emerging context? The detail, the broad stroke, the battery, the jar? Or is it your understanding that grows when the context emerges? Your understanding grows but the thing does not grow. Only the context around it–the context that you understand–grows and emerges and grows. Like a battery. Like a jar. Like a brick.

The thing remains what it is. At least with respect to itself. From its own frame of reference. From its own point of view. Context grows with respect to you, not it. From your frame of reference. From your point of view.

The thing remains what it is. It is not you. You are not what it is. You know nothing of the thing apart from the growing emerging context. You know nothing about the thing. The thing itself. The thing with respect to itself. From the thing’s frame of reference. From the thing’s point of view.

A battery. A jar. A brick.

It.

*Photo copyright Sean Fallon

November 19, 2012

 photogenic_brick

A Photogenic Brick

A brick. A photogenic brick. I was a photogenic brick in a past incarnation. How many past incarnations ago, I am not sure. I only remember a few of them. But I remember this one. This one in which I was a brick. A red brick. A red brick in a wall. But not just any wall. Not just another brick in just another wall.

A dark red brick. I was a dark red brick in a wall of red bricks. Lighter red bricks. I was a dark red brick in a wall of light red bricks.

A long brick. A long brick in a wall of mostly short bricks. A long dark red brick in a wall of mostly short light red bricks.

Not just another brick in the wall. Never just another brick in the wall.

A bottom brick. The bottom-most brick in the short wall. The third from the left. The bottom-most brick. The third from the left in the bottom-most row. The foundation row.

The longest darkest red brick in the bottom-most row.

As you can see, not just another brick in the wall. And next to me, a whole row of short light red bricks on edge. Always on edge. That’s what I do. Put others on edge. Regardless of my incarnation, I put you on edge.

A brick. A dark red brick. A long dark red brick in the bottom-most row. Not just another brick in the wall.

In the wall. A wall on edge. On edge.

On edge.

Don’t be just another.

November 8, 2012

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