Flash Fiction
Mayhem, To the incinerator! by Robby Osbourne
Moby Dick Limerick by David Osnoe
Framed by Sean Burns
Untitled (A Warm Morning Last Fall) by Sarah Huey
Untitled by Matt Palmer
Untitled by Matt Palmer
Mayhem
To the incinerator!
by Robby Osbourne
What the Canadian Mountie scientists had been working on for the past 12 years was nearly complete, on this, the day of the 50th Mountie memorial for the great Canadian Forest Fire of 2012. This project would mean the only things Mounties had to fear while patrolling their majestic forest was a renegade elk or a caribou on an all-night drinking binge.
It started off such a simple project, they originally created a mascot just like Smokey the Bear, but the project designer -Dr. Madman McCallister thought that they hadn't taken it far enough and pushed his idea, a most monstrous experiment indeed. He discovered how to mix and manipulate a bear's DNA to actually create a bear that prevents forest fire. The only catch is that the fire prevention and over-raged DNA were chromosome were on the phosphate group. He unleashed this bear upon Canada, with no one the wiser.
Three weeks after Smokey's release into the wild, mauling-related deaths among campers reached 100%. "No camper left behind," was Smokey's motto.
2 months into Smokey's release, it was rumored that the woodland critters with Smokey, at the head, had taken over Canada. However, Americans just thought the Canadians got stingy with their cheap medications.
When American's learned of this malevolent malady upon Canada, we did the only thing feasible: we burned down Canada and its forests. Smokey, try as he might, did not get the fire out and was consumed by those flames he tried to destroy. Thus, American saves the day, again!
Moby Dick Limerick
by David Osnoe
There once was a whale that was white.
The whale ate the captain's leg one night.
Now it's hard to forgive
Let alone live
Knowing the whale has what's yours by right.
Framed
by Sean Burns
It was labelled "Jacob." That was all. No last name, no date, no indication to any specific Jacob in any way at all. I lifted the lid of the dusty old shoe box and instantly took a punch to the face. That distinctive, pungent smell of burnt hair persisted after who knows how many years and I almost got sick.
I had a relative named Jacob, somewhere on the tree, way off on some obscure branch. This had to be his. It made no sense but I couldn't come up with any better reason a box of burnt hair, allegedly belonging to someone named Jacob at some point or another, would have been sent to my house in brown paper wrapping and with no return address. The sirens are going outside my house and there's banging at the door. I've been framed! I've never seen this before in my life! The wrapping paper has only my prints. No record of it being mailed, only evidence. I'm sorry, Jacob.
Untitled (A Warm Morning Last Fall)
by Sarah Huey
She was taken back to a warm morning last fall. She was in the kitchen, washing the dishes from the dinner party they had hosted the night before, and he crept up behind her. He placed his chin on her shoulder and wrapped both of his arms around her wait. "Do you know how much I love you?," he whispered in her ear.
Suddenly, she realized where she was. She felt the cold again. She rubbed her fingers against the scratch upholstery that covered the chairs in the waiting room. The last time she had been in that hospital she was thirteen, and she had a bad case of the flu. It smelled the same. The walls were covered with the same mint color. But she wasn't sick this time. This time she was waiting -waiting to hear if her husband was still alive.
Untitled
by Matt Palmer
In kindergarten, we wrote letters to our mums on Mother's Day, a sort of thank-you-for-being-the-best type of thing.
Well, that went in the fire.
I had perfect attendance in 2nd grade. I came every day. Even when I was sick. They gave me an award; it was framed.
It took a long time for the cheap plastic to melt.
I stole a shoe from the Holocaust Museum. We had just read Night by Elie Wiesel and he was my new favorite author. A shoe was better than an autograph. Isn't it ironic that it was lost in the ashes?
I had a picture of my dad and I that my mum gave me when I was old enough. I guess assumed that the man who used to hit her would look sullen and angry, but I've never seen a happier person in my life. It burned in the fire. He looked just like me. And maybe some day I'll hit the woman I love, too. Maybe I'll abandon our son. Maybe I won't marry her, and I'll leave her with black eyes and no money. Maybe some day my son'll hate me, too.
If a forest fire erases every part of my good-for-nothing life, then... good. If there was any justice, it'd follow me home. If I had any goddamn sense, I'd jump in there, too.
Untitled
by Matt Palmer
Amputate the arm while the cancer is still in the wrist. The tattoo of your grand,mother is God knows where now. All the bruises and scares you got when you were growing up are gone. Why should you define the past when the best recollection of it is a fading line above your elbow. Or your old, no longer yours, did they burn it? elbow. Where do they all go?