/ffa/ - Flash Fiction Anthology

[Anonymous No.19076634]

Practice writing with flash fiction and join anthology #3!

Flashes will be collected from these threads and turned into an anthology. Leave a prompt after your flash for the next person.

>Publication
Free .epub on archive.org
Lulu print on demand with the lowest possible no-profit price

>Requirements
1,000-word maximum. No porn, extreme abuse or gore, etc. Original fiction written from a thread prompt. Prompts cannot be used more than once.

>Deadline
October 31st

>Prompts (anyone can add to the list)
Humans terraform Saturn
The stage of evolution after homo-sapien
Everyone in the local police department becomes addicted to a designer drug
<insert country> in the year 2044
A micro-wedding goes awry
How the Queen of England remains spry in old age
A necrophiliac's first date
The reason our principal got hired
A cannibal doctor
You wake up as a woman
A professor only leaves their house on Monday
A desperate student finds an unlikely buyer for their bathwater
A child identifies as a dog
Jeff Bezos' beauty routine
Convincing Elon Musk to adopt you
Meeting your doppelganger
A shut-in decides to go trick-or-treating
Oprah's funeral
A bookshop run by monkeys
A man is killed during his first day at work
The best way to die on a dessert island
A city enters its 50th COVID lockdown
Someone discovers subliminal messaging in PAW Patrol
The Jeffrey Epstein Massage School at New York University
An annoying child believes the Harry Potter universe is real
Someone finds a syringe in their fridge and decides to use it
A closet full of skin suits
Why the next President gets impeached
An unexpected hazing ritual
Someone purchases a haunted couch
You develop fish hands
Treasure hunters descend on a small town
The Pope's secret that no one believes
The reincarnation of Christ
Unboxing the iPhone 500
The true purpose of the COVID vaccines
A dating app with extraordinary risks and rewards
A supervillain or superhero poisons all the vape cartridges
A new method for tattoo removal
A new plant is discovered in the jungle
A millionaire leaves their fortune to their dog
The next big trend in household pets is revealed
An unlikely animal killing people in Australia
Bouquets are sent without a message

>Previous anthologies
Gifts Evil and Good
https://archive.org/details/gifts-good-and-evil
https://www.lulu.com/en/us/shop/anonymous-/gifts-evil-and-good/paperback/product-mgwkgv.html

Rags and Bones
https://archive.org/details/rags-and-bones
https://www.lulu.com/en/ca/shop/anonymous-/rags-and-bones/paperback/product-9d7gp2.html

[Anonymous No.19076694]

>bringing back a dead general
For what purpose?

[Anonymous No.19076800]

>>19076634
YES so excited to see this back! I'm gonna start working on "A Bookshop Run By Monkeys"

[Anonymous No.19076851]

>>19076800
Is there a limit of 5 per author this time around or?

[Anonymous No.19076870]

Now do I need to use the prompt in my text, or start with it or so?

[Anonymous No.19076929]

>>19076870
In the last anthology, the prompt is just that…something to give you an idea for the flash. Some of the best ones took a basic prompt in an unexpected direction.

In the anthology there aren’t titles for each flash, so the prompt serves in it’s place.

[Anonymous No.19076940]

>>19076929
Ok thanks,

Nd I guess on the 31st of Oktober someone will post a throwaway email here where we'll all submit our stories?

[Anonymous No.19076961]

>>19076851
Not this time. I hope each flash has impact though. We have 43 days. If you think one you just wrote is a bit mundane, try rewriting it before moving on.

[Anonymous No.19076994]

>>19076940
No, flashes must be posted in these threads for collection. Part of the fun is reading them as they come in. It also ensures this is a /lit/ anthology. Please post the prompt you used along with the flash, to connect the two.

[Anonymous No.19077631]

>>19076634
>Unboxing the iPhone 500
Working on this one…it’s developed into something more like “unboxing a new iPhone” and I’m trying to trim it down to under 1,000 words. Will try to post tonight.

[Anonymous No.19077977]

>>19077631
>Unboxing a new iPhone (hope you don't mind if I change the prompt a bit…the story took me in a different direction)

The first drop was just outside the Apple store.

A week before I started college, Dad brought me to pick out a new phone. Throughout high school I always used this beat-up budget phone; smashed screen wrapped in colorful duct tape. It sounds dumb, but as I held this sleek new iPhone model in Rose Gold, it made me feel all new and fancy, too! I think this was Dad’s way of saying he trusted me, an acknowledgement I wasn’t the clumsy kid I used to be; dropper of dishes, destroyer of shoes, grim reaper to goldfish.

Thinking this, crisp white box clutched to my chest, I look up to see Dad comparing durability ratings in the phone cases isle…maybe ‘trust’ was too strong a word.

As we sat in the food court, he insisted on being the one to unbox my new gift and seal it into it’s military-grade case. He placed it, unprotected, ever so carefully at the center of our table, and set to work opening the case’s clamshell packaging. After much arm-straining and tooth-tearing the plastic gave way with a crack. His hand shot out, spilling his Pepsi onto my lap and sending my rosy treasure clattering across the tile floor.

I recovered my poor baby, checking for damage as I walked to grab napkins from Sbarro’s. The screen was fine, but the rear glass had cracked in a perfect arc. I expected to feel my temper rise - I could see Dad at the table bracing for a fight - but the anger didn’t come. For once I wasn’t the fuck up, and it filled me with a strange pride.

I sat down, pulled out my old phone (not even worth a trade-in), and tore a thin strip of pink duct tape from it’s cracked face. I placed the tape - bandaid-like, just so - across Rosie’s back. Dad watched silently as I used the napkins to dab his ridiculous case dry, placed her inside, and snapped it close.

There would be many more cracks, scratches, surprise-swims, and close calls in Rosie’s future. But that pink tape stayed - glue failing, edges curling - as a reminder of my triumph.

*****

That bulky case just wasn’t Rosie’s style...and it didn’t stick around long. You see, Rosie was a punk rocker at heart, and Dad’s case had more of a ‘deer hunter’ vibe going on - camo green and smelling like a toolbox. As soon as we landed in the dorms, we switched to a sleek, cherry-red number.

The life of a punk rocker is rough one, though, and it was only appropriate that Rosie’s second major scrape came from a crowded basement concert. Rosie and I whirled through the scrum, taking and posting a bevy of low-light pictures - stage lights glare streaking across a sea of raised arms, technicolor hairdos, and be-spiked shoulders.

(1/3)

[Anonymous No.19077981]

>>19077977
(2/3)

Amidst all the mock-violent revelry of the dancers, some drunk asshole got his feelings hurt and had to make a scene about it. I was shoved from behind as ‘feelings’ was expelled from the crowd. At the blow, Rosie tumbles to the ground and is quickly ground beneath the asshole’s faux-combat boots.

I snapped her up from the floor and gave the drunk a firm kick in the shin before making my way back to street level. At first Rosie seemed fine, the pictures were the same streaks and blurs I remembered, but as soon as I switched to iMessage I saw the damage. The top corner of the screen was a small spiderweb of cracks, and you could even see some black pools behind the glass. Rosie was bleeding!

Bleeding after a fight in a basement club. That’s actually pretty punk, I guess…

*****

Though our punk phase was short-lived, the joy of capturing movement and light stayed with me. I settled into a photography major, and Rosie served as light meter for my analog camera, and as darkroom timer.

She and I saw the world. Together, we booked trans-atlantic flights, navigated foreign bus routes, located hostels, and wandered - entranced - countless Vias and Rues and Avenidas. Rosie wore her spider cracks and pink tape - proud as a faded tattoo - beneath her clear case.

[Anonymous No.19077995]

>>19077981
(3/3)

At four years old, her once best-in-class battery barely lasted through lunch. I travelled with an array of chargers, adapters, and battery packs - life support for my elderly companion. All to push back the time we both knew was coming.

*****

An Irish rain did her in. I was in the habit of leaving her off to preserve battery, and neglected to check the weather before leaving for a hike. Morning fog became cold mist which became (local term) pissing rain.

Rosie was made waterproof, but that cracked corner was her achilles heel. When I powered her on, I discovered enough of the downpour had soaked through my coat pocket to penetrate her aging circuitry.

I cried.

When you name a thing, you give it a special meaning. And losing something meaningful hurts.

I might still have saved her then - I could have rushed her into a owl of rice grains, or to some repair store - but Rosie wouldn’t want to hang on after her time. - and what better way to go than to be carried away in her sleep one misty-morning, 3500 miles from home. I wouldn’t bring her back with me, to be lost in a ‘junk drawer’ or ‘cord box’ like all the other dead phones. I lifted a mossy cobblestone, and placed her underneath. And there she still lies in Connemara.

Rosie was my Mary Poppins: she came to me at a time of transition, led me safe through the storm, and departed as the East wind changes. I don’t imagine my next phone will have a name, but I’ll see if I can’t find some pink tape…just in case.

>New prompt: Unintentionally becoming a very important swing vote

[Anonymous No.19078002]

>>19077981
This was beautiful anon, great job.

[Anonymous No.19078010]

>>19076634
Aww shiiieeet, you're back.

[Anonymous No.19079035]

Aw shieet, it's good to be bakk.

[Anonymous No.19079647]

bump

[Anonymous No.19079669]

>>19076634
Thanks for reviving this, OP!
Look forward to seeing what /lit/ anons write

[Anonymous No.19079808]

>>19077995
anon, what the fuck. such a stupid prompt, turned into such an absolute soulful childlike art of words. how?

[Anonymous No.19079951]

>>19076634
So happy this is starting again! I was able to submit 2 storys in rags and bones and had a blast reading all the others, currently im thinking of writing to one of the prompts, either humans terraform saturn, a new form of tattoo removal, or bouquets are sent without a message.
I'll have one posted hopefully tonight

[Anonymous No.19079999]

Working on one for the "Necrophiliac's first date" prompt. Will post tonight probably

[Anonymous No.19080324]

>>19077995
Genuinely a great story. Damn.

[Anonymous No.19081308]

[Anonymous No.19081725]

>>19079951
Bumping for this anon

[Anonymous No.19082120]

>>19077995
it's well-written but at the same time it rings melodramatic and i'm fighting myself to like it

[Anonymous No.19082493]

>>19076634
>A desperate student finds an unlikely buyer for their bathwater

Hope to complete this one tonight (in the format of a ‘Dear Prudence’ letter)

[Anonymous No.19082564]

>>19076634
Bumping. What are we gonna call this one? I'd like to put forward "Bits and Bobs, Odds and Ends" for consideration.

[Anonymous No.19082693]

> The reincarnation of Christ

The windows are boarded up; the door, sporting multiple, subsequent eviction notices is bolted shut, the worn stairs leading to the lawn are overgrown, and the lawn, itself a paddock of life, everlasting. This house isn’t really anyone’s destination, just a forgotten corner in the north of the urban sprawl. Every day, homeless walk by it, bags toted over shoulders and carefully disguised cellphones; they don’t even pay it a glance, save for maybe a quizzical thought as to why it hasn’t been torn down. Thousands of workers, their trucks laden with the tools of their trade drive past it, their seats littered with fastfood wrappers, and their unshaven cheeks bearing the signs of their laxity. None of them notice it either, derivative country music and yesterdays hangover bearing away any sense of curiosity and replacing it with simply the desire to grind away the week in search of another end from the toil.

The skyline, sparse as it is, is dominated by the scattered buildings that tower over the sprawl. This city isn’t large enough to linger in the thoughts of many; the overbearing Human consciousness barely spares it a thought, opting instead for political intrigues and whatever is premiering on their phones, the pale glow rising in place of the sun for most. If one drove down the street, they’d run smack into the highway, eight lanes of coursing traffic, the lifeblood of this organism, a constant pulse of life amid the concrete and well manicured lawns. It is in this specific house, on this particular street, in this nameless corner of a city that’s only distinguishment is that it is a place to pass through; a journey made flesh, that he returns to.

He steps from that doorway, past the lawn, overgrown slightly, but not enough to draw attention. There was a family here once, an emanation of love that spanned at least two generations, building life and enjoyment, and , if not a thriving community, at least it was something for someone, once. Now its only a corpse, stuck in the place after death, not quite stinking enough to warrant its burial. He sighs, stepping over trash and cigarette butts onto the thoroughfare’s parallel sidewalk. The whores don’t walk here; it’s too close to the highway, and thus far too much of a chance of a passing policeman, so He’s the only one around. Passing vehicles, their shiny plastic reflecting the mid-morning sunlight, and their occupants’ lazy gazes passing over what they see as just another street walker — at least this one isn’t asking for money.

[Anonymous No.19082697]

>>19082693
He knows that half a mile away, in the bathroom of a McDonalds, a man is breathing his last, lungs robbed of strength by the opioids coursing through his veins. He knows which men passing him will end their lives within the week, the despair that emanates from this modern schema of existance erroding them at last. He knows, as one knows the weather, the cruel, impassion of the teeming hordes that pass him by. This is a forgotten world, one long distanced from anything that may’ve been. He knows the cynics, the banal, the hopeful, and the heartless. He knows the hatred, the impassivity, the absolute depravity and the Humanity. This is what he wrought, and what exemplifies His failure. Something stirs in him then, something boundless and inhuman in its scale and dimensions. He knows, like a man knows how to stand up, the capacity for beauty in forgotten places and the determination in the face of inertia that picks at ones strength.

Most of all, he knows Love.

He knows the weight of history, and the intricacies these people will inscribe into the memory of their fathers. He knows — in every language — the words they say to make eachother smile. He knows, the words they say to make eachother cry. Theirs is a story of tragedy, but like a pot dropped from the shelf, there is still time for it to be caught before it crashes into shards. This is a species that has known only blood and death for a hundred, thousand years; vestiges of the utter domination wrought unto the very memory of the Earth.

He sighs in finality, wincing as yet another man is beaten nearly to death, on camera for the wild adulation of the internet crowds. The ugly, the lazy, the downright cruel — they’re all pieces of the fractures that have been spun throughout this farse for thousuands of years. Money is made from the banal manipulations of the comedically stupid while a short, bald man goes for a cruise in his hundred-million dollar ocean-liner. Across the globe, hundreds will starve to death, while hundreds more are sodimized on camera for that same crowd of internet voyers, eyes aglint with that feverish glow of bloodlust.

He knows evil as well.

The gunshot isn’t very loud amidst the roar of engines, and the ambiance of the city. Blood spatters the pavement, and those who notice whip out their phones to film this spectacle; a man shooting himself right in the middle of the street? Shit, that’ll be huge on snapchat. Sandled feet are lain astrew, the white gown now soaked in red. A few minutes later, a police offer arrives on scene, fresh from some other atrocity.

Life goes on.

[Anonymous No.19082704]

>>19076694
To write, you fucking retard, why else?

[Anonymous No.19082713]

>>19082704
Except people here don't write, idiot.

[Anonymous No.19082720]

>>19082713

[Anonymous No.19082832]

>>19082693
Oof.

>a city that’s only distinguishment is that it is a place to pass through
Love this line

> There was a family here once...
Reminds me of a song I once loved (from the perspective of an abandoned home): Faithless - Bring my Family Back
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=_CmRu-QxYLI

>like a pot dropped from the shelf, there is still time for it to be caught
C’mon Jesus...you can do it!

>Life goes on.
:-/
welp, guess we fumbled ball a bit on that one guys. How long again til the third coming?

[Anonymous No.19083243]

>>19082493
>>A desperate student finds an unlikely buyer for their bathwater

Dear Ms. Mindwell,

My husband and I have been grieving the loss of our daughter for the past year. She took her own life very suddenly, and we’ve been trying to better understand her state of mind, and the events that led to her death. It seems she was involved in an online modeling website, where she would exchange video messages or ‘mementos’ with her ‘fans’. My husband and I try to be open-minded and don’t judge her in the least for this, but it did come to us as a surprise. We felt we were quite close, yet she had never once mentioned this career or broaches with us her need for money.

I have lately discovered that my husband has been purchasing some of these ‘momentos’ through the fans website; specifically, glass mason jars of her ‘used bathwater’. At first he denied this, but after I confronted him with the receipts - our daughters accounts have reverted to us - he claims that it’s only natural for him to want to remain closer to her. He says he pours some in with his own bathwater, to be closer to her. He says he can smell her with him and has - entirely without my encouragement - demonstrated that our family dog responds excitedly to the smell of this water over others.

I don’t doubt that this helps him remember her, and I feel horrible for wanting to sever his last connection to our daughter...but I can’t help but be disgusted by the image of my husband as one of her many ‘fans’. I know there is nothing sexual in his use of the bathwater, but still the idea makes me so uncomfortable I avoid being near him after his baths.

Help!
Not a Fan

(1/2)

[Anonymous No.19083255]

>>19083243
(2/2)

Dear Not a Fan,

First, let me say I am so saddened to hear of your loss, and wish both of you the best.

As I have stated numerous times in the past, we all must grieve in our way and in our own time. It is not unusual for parents to want to treasure momentos of a lost child; photos, a lock of hair, a preserved room. That being said, I feel you are perfectly right in your judgement, and the description of your husbands behavior also has me wishing to take a long shower.

I recommend you sit down with your husband and explain how this is affecting you emotionally. Whether he or the dog can smell her is beside the point...if he misses that scent, he can surely locate her shampoo and remember her in a way which causes all of us far less distress. Further, I wish that you both will speak to a grief counselor. The death of a child places an enormous strain on a marriage, and you two need all the help you can to support each other through this.

My deepest sympathies,
Ms. M

P.S. I don’t presume to understand how this business model works, but it seems there is some third party in possession of - and profiting from - your late daughter’s effects. I urge you to speak to a lawyer regarding this unsavory situation.

(2/2)

[Anonymous No.19084258]

Bump

[Anonymous No.19084283]

>>19076634
>No porn, extreme abuse or gore, etc.
wanna know how i know this one will be shit?

[Anonymous No.19084350]

>>19084283
It's not shocking. Smut is always more prolific.

[Anonymous No.19085325]

>>19083255
Forgot to add a new prompt:
>Swimming through memories

[Anonymous No.19085701]

>>19084283
That line is to prevent boring stories.

[Anonymous No.19085737]

>>19082697
Activates the almonds. Nice job anon, unexpected. I like the bird's eye view.

[Anonymous No.19086075]

>>19084283
Wasn't that description in the other ones as well? At least rags and bones had it

[Anonymous No.19086136]

I'm going to write
>The best way to die on a dessert island
and have it be about a dessert island instead of a desert island just to be a dick

[Anonymous No.19086188]

>>19086075
I think that’s been there from the start.

[Anonymous No.19086252]

>>19086136
It's not a typo :)

[Anonymous No.19086380]

>>19083255
Nice job, I like the format, and the story is strange enough to be intriguing. I think this is the first advice column style flash.

[Anonymous No.19087340]

>>Someone purchases a haunted couch
In progress…

[Anonymous No.19087574]

>>19085325
> Swimming through memories
In progress…

[Anonymous No.19087923]

>>19076634
Not really written anything Sci-Fi-y before, but here's an attempt. About two hours spent writing, and 15 minutes editing. Will probably edit further based on feedback but hey.

Used the "The Pope's secret that no one believes" prompt.

April 16th, 4152 AD:
Deep inside Zeta-prime, there was an unusual smattering of light pulsing back and forth. Red then blue, and then red once again. The blinking light observed by the gaze of startled eyes drawn down from the balconies and walkways above.
The core of Zeta-prime is known colloquially as “old earth” – the remnants of a bygone age, where man lived simply upon the ground. At some point hundreds of years ago, the ground itself was made unliveable, but instead of man falling into himself he instead looked upwards towards the heavens and built into the sky. Layer upon layer of steel, glass, embedded LCD displays, and high-resolution cameras became the foundation for the planet spanning city of Zeta. The city so large and all-encompassing that no natural light was permitted down to the bedrock of “old earth”, the dark dead core of a vibrant electric city.
It was not illegal to venture down onto the surface, nor was it discouraged. It was simply seen as a redundant activity, for what purpose would a person have to travel into the gloom of that former world? The old cities of earth had long since been stripped and broken down for parts. Nothing remained but a cold damp layer of rock, unable to sustain anything more exotic than a layer of bacteria and moss.
The activity quickly caught the attention of the local police. Blade cruisers were soon streaking down towards the surface, leaving a blade of light in their wake. Their ion drives pushing them to faster speeds than they were ever allowed to reach within the boundaries of Zeta-prime. Truth be told, it was a boring job being a police officer in a world with eyes on every corner. Where every crime was automatically captured on camera, catalogued, and justice dispensed without the need for any physical human intervention. When the officers of ZP-PD got the opportunity to get some action, oh boy did they take it.
Inside the lead cruiser, rookie officer Eugene gripped the control column with a steely determination. He had to be the first to land, if he managed to make an arrest it would be the first in nearly 5 years. What a spectacle that would make on the world-wide news network later that evening, they would probably make holovids about this day! Eugene knew this and pushed his cruiser to its limit. The nano-plastic hull beginning to vibrate and the glass cockpit starting to steam up as he burst through Mach-9 to Mach-10.

(1/3)

[Anonymous No.19087928]

>>19087923
Eugene could see the small flashes of light getting bigger and brighter as he hurtled towards them. Soon the blue and red was enveloping Eugene’s unblinking face, overpowering the dim white light of the control column. He was nearing the ground and began to deploy the brakes, applying them with a firm grip he experienced multiple G’s of force as the cruiser came to a stop a few meters from the light. Pausing, Eugene looked through the steamed glass to try and make sense of what was causing the lights, unable to see much due to a pervasive mist. He assumed it was probably some youths in a tricked-out sky-skeeter who had got themselves in a touch of bother, but this was something else.
Leaping from the cockpit of his cruiser, Eugene pulled out his Ventura series 9 phase pistol and clicked the safety off. In contrast to his rapid arrival, Eugene now carefully considered each step as he moved in closer.
“ZP-PD, who’s out there?” Eugene called out. There was no reply.
Pushing forward Eugene broke through the mist. He did not recognise the object, but his built-in retinal heads-up display labelled the object successfully for him. The lump of metal sat there, its black and white livery emblazoned with the letters “LAPD”, the red and blue light beaming intermittently from what appeared to be retro LED lights. The heads-up display read “2016 LAPD Ford Explorer”. His pistol held high, Eugene could see what appeared to be a black wing pointing skywards at the rear of the vehicle.
“This is the ZP-PD, please identify yourself immediately”.
Unaware of the weaponry afforded to “2016 LAPD Ford Explorers”, Eugene fired a warning shot low overhead. The thunderbolt erupting from the pistol and screaming just above the object.
“Don’t move or the next one won’t miss!”
A figure moved out of the shadow, wearing a billowing gold gown. The man wore a gaudy white pointed hat and held an archaic gold staff.
“What in God’s name do you want boy?” the figure shouted at him. “Can’t you see I’m busy, leave me alone”.
“Who are you and what is your purpose here?”
“Who am I?” The man chuckles to himself, turning away from Eugene. “Who are you? Fuck off”
“You are talking to a member of ZP-PD’s finest so show some respect, now tell me your purpose down here or I will shoot!”
“Jesus Christ alive, I’m too old to deal with this bullshit.” The figure grabbed the black wing and slammed it down, he then proceeded to walk directly towards Eugene.
“Take another step, I will shoot!”
“You wouldn’t shoot an old man” he was right, Eugene couldn’t shoot someone, most Zeta-Prime police never fire their service-weapon in their entire career.
The man pulled a handle on one side of the “2016 LAPD Ford Explorer”, and another metal wing flung open. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

(2/3)

[Anonymous No.19087938]

>>19087923
>>19087928

“Who are you? What are you doing here?”
“I’m Pope Benedict XVI, and what I’m doing here is secret”. There was a metallic jingle, followed by a beefy roar. The man leant out of the window toward Eugene and winked. With one final roar the vehicle started to become more and more translucent until it disappeared from sight.
Holstering his weapon as the other blade cruisers screeched to a halt nearby. Eugene sighed.
April 16th, 2008 AD:
“Where have you been?”
“You wouldn’t believe me”

(3/3)

Might be shit, let me know

[Anonymous No.19088527]

>>19087923
>>19087938

Descriptive stuff seems nice, but I don't know if it's the cliche'd scifi 'zeta primus; ZPD, etc' stuff, but the scifi came across as very reddit, almost satirically so.

Also, format better. Decent attempt though, and please do write more; I love this general.

[Anonymous No.19088655]

>>19087923
I liked it, anon! Good build up to the punchline, though my only complaint is that Benedict’s speech toward the officer is clearly out of character. Would have been better had he said nothing at all prior to the final line.

>>19088527
100% agree that this is cliche as hell, but I’ll give the author the benefit of the doubt and say he was aiming for a pulp sci-fi feel and not any real world-building.

It was fun. Write more!

[Anonymous No.19088741]

>>19088527
>>19088655
Thanks guys appreciate it, I was thinking that I would just drop the pope into a trashy/pulpy sci-fi world, must have put about 10 seconds of thought into the "Zeta Prime" name haha.

There was originally a "pontificate" joke in the pope's speech, it was just too clunky for my liking though. I was going to have the pope return to "in-character" in 2008 but ran out of words. Add to the mystery: why does he speak weird in the future? what's he up to? etc etc

[Anonymous No.19088829]

>>19088741
Good call not adding too much mystery to the pope character…keep it light and silly.

Either don’t try too hard, or give it 100%. If you’re trying to be clever or deep in one part and arch in another, you’ll fail to pull of either one.

[Anonymous No.19089258]

>>19087340
>>Someone purchases a haunted couch

“Please have a seat on the Chesterfield.”

“The what?”

“The couch, Mr. Pieroni,” said the lawyer, his voice full of contempt, “please have a seat on that big couch over there.”

The lawyer surveyed his client. Antonio Pieroni - always ‘Antonio’, never ‘Tony’ - was 56 years old. He owned two homes, one in the city and one upstate. He pulled in seven-figures a year. And, inexplicably, he did not know what a Chesterfield was.

“So where’s my new digs?” Antonio’s jocular voice breaking the lawyer’s silence “I’m hoping for Cabo. Or Bali, I always wanted to go to Bali.”

It’s impossible that he’s never seen one. Either he’s incredibly forgetful or so incurious that he never thought to discover the name of the distinctive furniture now supporting his fleshy frame.

“I hope I don’t gotta learn a new language, at my age I got no room for that shit in my head.”

The Chesterfield was the centerpiece of the lawyers office. Dark wood walls and an ornate desk complemented the Chesterfield’s chestnut brown leather, deep buttoning, and those classic rolled arms. It was an antique, a piece of history. Nearly a century it adorned a British Earl’s smoking room, steeping in the thick aroma of cigar smoke and cognac, before the lawyer won it at auction.

(1/3)

[Anonymous No.19089265]

>>19089258

(2/3)

“Why aren’t you sayin’ anything? The boss paid you, right? I got everything sorted out at home; they’re gonna make it out like a boating accident. Even the wife and kid won’t know a thing, we got them both looked after”

Finally, the lawyer smiled. “I’m so sorry, Antonio, I was woolgathering. Yes, everything is in order. Tomorrow morning you will board a train to Newark. There we have arranged a private jet, under an alias of course, to take you to Montenegro. It’ll take a few stops to get—”

“Where the hell is Montenegro?”

Of course he wouldn’t know. For all his talk of ‘back home’, this fool wouldn’t know the Adriatic Sea from the Aegean.

“It’s a Balkan nation, but that doesn’t concern us. There are only two things you need to know about Montenegro: one, they don’t extradite to the US. Two, there’s a small community of Italian ex-pats there, you’ll fit right in.”

The lawyer placed a cigar box on the ottoman between himself and his client. “Travel to Montenegro requires updating your vaccinations. Please remove your coat and roll up your sleeve.”

The big man gave an alarmed look. It has always amused the lawyer that, despite the violence inherent in their occupation, every one of his clients became a child again upon seeing the needle.

“I am well-practiced Antonio, let’s get this taken care of first and we’ll get on to familiarizing you with your new identity.”

Remembering himself, the large man did as asked and presented his left arm to the lawyer. The syringe was drawn smoothly from the box, and filled from a small vial. The lawyer gave it a few sharp flicks and used two fingers to position tye needle carefully above the deltoid. He gave a reassuring nod and depressed the plunger.

“Your arm may feel tired, this is entirely normal. If you like, I can help you remove your coat and lie down.”

It would be about a minute before Mr. Pieroni could no longer move his arms or legs, and the lawyer found the whole ordeal much less risky if the client placed themselves into a prone position before realizing anything was amiss.

“What the hell kind of shot was that?”

The paralytic could take fifteen minutes or more to affect his client’s breathing and speech, and he did not want neighbors to hear this man’s bellowing.

(2/3)

[Anonymous No.19089273]

>>19089265

(3/3)

“We are both professionals here, Antonio.” The lawyer sat beside his client, applying just enough pressure to keep his head from lifting off the leather seat. “In your heart, you must have known we couldn’t let you just run off, knowing what you do.”

“You son of a—”

The lawyer pushed a bit more firmly and the man’s curses became muffled, consumed completely by the rich upholstery. Back in Mayfair, the Chesterfield’s ample stuffing absorbed years of smoke and stimulating conversation; in Queens, it supped mainly on the curses and dying breaths of those who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Their gnashing teeth tended to scuff and tear the leather, so the lawyer tried to localize the damage by always laying their heads in roughly the same spot.

“Montenegro may have been a lie, but the rest was not. Your family will believe you died in a boating accident, and they will be set for life. If it’s any conciliation —” the lawyer wondered if his client knew the word. “If it makes you feel better, the boss didn’t cross you. You and Big Mikey, and Gino, and Maria’s boy and on and on, he thinks you’re all sunning yourselves on some remote beach.”

The lawyer reached around with his other hand and pinched Antonio’s nose closed, pressing his face harder into the leather.

“This is my call. I keep the family safe, I keep loose ends from pulling the whole garment apart. Scream your hate out at me, but know that the family always loved you.”

The lawyer felt like he was out of a bad movie, having this heart-to-heart with a dead man, but explaining himself to them really did make the job easier.

A loud knock came at the door. “Hey Pieroni, you in there? Boss says you can call off your little vacation, turns out the cop that saw you was on the take.” The lawyer scrambled across the room to lock the office door, but couldn’t reach it before Marco pushed inside.

“Antonio?”

Marco disposed of two bodies that night. He discovered stacks of cash, intended for airfare and new identities, in a trick compartment of the lawyer’s desk. The furniture seemed too nice to toss, so he brought it home; a gift for his fiancée.

“I like this big couch, but we’re gonna need to patch that ugly hole”

“Babe, this isn’t just a couch…it’s a Chesterfield.”

>>New Prompt: Someone lives between the walls

[Anonymous No.19090335]

BAMP

[Anonymous No.19090697]

>>19087938
I like it. It does feel kind of like classic or pulpy scifi, like a short story from a magazine decades ago. Which was the golden age for scifi.

[Anonymous No.19091676]

>>19076634
>You develop fish hands
So…like your hands are now fish? Or you have the sort of hands a fish would (if fish had hands)?

This one’s really got me all confused…

[Anonymous No.19092405]

>>19089273
Smooth. The atmosphere comes through strong. I would definitely read more about the lawyer's history. You did a good job with his pov.

[Anonymous No.19092479]

>>19091676
There is no wrong interpretation

[Anonymous No.19093024]

>>19076634
>You wake up as a woman
A hard day at the construction site, pushing my muscles to their limits, was followed by six Heineken and a fistful of honey-mustard pretzels. Bleary-eyed and sick, I stumbled out of the cantine and vomited all over the parking meter. Looking up, a blonde, bolt-on bimbo stood before me, angry and impatient.

“Hey baby, want a taste?” I chuckled, throwing up again.

I got into my car, confused. Where was the ignition in my 1968 Toyota Pinto? Oh, right there. Back in my apartment after nearly totaling a family of four, I turned the television set on. The antenna was all fucked up, so I knocked it around a couple of times like my ex-wife. It was the big game: Boston and Cincinnati were going at it. Nothing made sense after I downed the last of my vodka and orange juice, and I started to hear my own snoring. The day faded into dusk, and with it, my manhood.

By dawn, something had changed. No, it wasn’t the splitting headache. I fell out of my recliner and crawled to the bathroom to spit the blood out. Holy hell, did I have to piss something fierce! It was then, as I unzipped my fly, that I noticed I had no cock. With a scream and a spray of urine out my new cooter, I fell backwards and hit my head on the toilet. I ran my fingers through my hair, feeling stickiness.

“Wait, hair? What in the god damn?”

The mirror revealed a head full of luscious blonde curls down to my shoulders. I let out a squeal of delight, then felt a shiver of revulsion. My voice! I was like a little girl.

“Uh, what the fuck is going on, here?” I said, like a nine-year old school girl.

In fact, I was a nine-year old school girl! My work clothes, soiled and stained with days of unwashed mansweat and dirt, hung over me like drapery. Shedding them, my eyes widened in shock and, strangely, a small thrill of… delight? Hand over my chest, I felt at my budding nipples and turning sideways, I put a hand over my little butt. The skin was smooth as a Georgia peach! Where had all the hair and cysts gone? My eyes were a dark blue-brown mixture and, pressing my cheeks up into a fake, cheesy smile, I immediately recognized who I was: Shirley fucking Temple!

“I don’t feel so good…” I muttered, bile and half-digested pretzel climbing up my esophagus, and I passed out on the bathroom floor.

It was midlight when I woke up, crusted in vomit and blood, cockroaches scurrying away from the scene of their crime. Getting up, I checked the mirror. Yep, still Shirley. With a sigh, I wrapped my smelly manclothes around me and went to the fridge. All I could find was a bottle of ketchup and a small container where I kept the live carp. I took the fish and hesitated to bite into its wriggling form. No, this wouldn’t do for a pretty little thing! What I needed was oatmeal, or a big bowl of Fruity Pebbles and strawberry milk. I left the apartment with a handful of cash to the corner liquor store.

[Anonymous No.19093045]

>>19076634
>>19093024
At first, I was afraid Ranjesh the clerk would recognize me, but of course he didn’t. I grabbed a box of cereal and a carton of milk and placed it on the counter.

“And what would you be doing in those clothes, little mam?” Ranjesh asked, taking my quarters. “Why are you not in school, where you belong?”

“I, um, uh…” Shit! What’s an excuse? Putting on my award winning, Shirley Temple smile, I explained. “My gramma is sick and I’m getting this for her.”

Ranjesh looked me up and down, suspicious, but then nodded. I ran back home and ate my breakfast in delight. I needed clothes, and fast! With a screw driver in hand, I broke into my neighbor’s apartment. Mike had a daughter about my age, named Nancy. She’d do. After rummaging through her drawers, I took out a pink, frilly skirt and blouse. No, I thought. Clashes with my skin tone. There was a shorter, white summer skirt and tank top, perfect for the weather. I hastily put them on, then looked at my reflection in Nancy’s mirror. What I really needed was a touch of lipstick and eyeliner. That would be just perfect for a… princess like me.

Just for kicks, I put on Nancy’s Hello, Dolly record and found myself tapping a little jig. Before I knew it, my feet found me in the middle of the street intersection. Men in suits and construction workers, on their lunchbreaks, milled around the sandwich shops and bodegas, eyeing my tiny dancer body. What was happening to me? What was this thrill, this wonderful music of life that made everything so irresistible? The men took me in their arms and spun me around like a ballerina. It was like a dream come true! I was a perfect little princess and the world was my god damn oyster. A parade of people picked me up and carried me like a queen down Main street. Wrapped in confetti, I was placed on a pallet in a back alley behind the court house.

The day faded into dusk, and with it, my femininity. The next morning, I woke up to the sound of a car alarm and two hobos digging through a dumpster, smashing glass bottles, screeching babies and angry mothers, and police sirens. I reached up to tug my cute curls, but they were gone! My gut was bulging, my cock swinging, and shit-matted hair covered my pocked ass. I was a man, once more. Was it a dream? Was all of that just a dream?

“Oh, but a wonderful dream it was…” I muttered. I didn’t need curls or lipstick or a tiny body to feel like a real girl! I had always been one.

[Anonymous No.19093085]

>>19076634
I'm so glad this thread is back. Love you guys. Can't wait to read the new one!

[Anonymous No.19093567]

>>19093045
Surreal dark comedy. Excellent work.

[Anonymous No.19093771]

>>19093567
Thank you, anon. Here's my favorite version of Hello, Dolly!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mcbw0GETjZw
When you really stop and think about it, there's a little Shirley Temple in all of us, no?

[Anonymous No.19094904]

>>19092479
Challenge accepted.

[Anonymous No.19096326]

>>19094904
Really looking forward to this one.

[Anonymous No.19096350]

>>19093567
kek at pic

[Anonymous No.19097553]

>>19076634
>A new plant is discovered in the jungle
On it.

[Anonymous No.19098457]

>>19076634
keep it up